THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


A  MAN  of  PURPOSE 


BY 

DONALD  RICHBERG 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  SHADOW  MEN,"  ETC. 


I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 
And  pulled  my  life  upon  me. . . . 
— FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

"The  Hound  of  Heaven." 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
V 


BOOK  I 
MYTH 

I.  "HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP"      .  3 

II.  PLAYTIME 9 

III.  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN      .     .      .     .  14 

IV.  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS     ....  27 

BOOK  II 
REALITY 

V.  STARTING  TO  WORK 47 

VI.  PLODDING  AND  DREAMING      ...  67 

VII.  MOONLIGHT 75 

VIII.  FOG .      .  81 

IX.  GETTING  AND  SPENDING  ....  93 

X.  OPPORTUNITIES 112 

XI.  FAMILY  SECRETS 123 

iii 


iv  CONTENTS 

BOOK  III 
WOMAN 

CHAPTKR  PAGE 

XII.  ENTER  IRMA 135 

XIII.  THE  TRAP  OPENS 148 

XIV.  THE  TRAP  CLOSES      .     .     .     .     .162 
XV.  A  RADICAL  RE-BORN 182 

XVI.  SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT      ....  200 

XVII.  GLEAMS .     .217 

XVIII.  GROPING 226 

XIX.  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW      ....   238 

BOOK  IV 
PURPOSE 

XX.  POWER 249 

XXI.  REACTION 255 

XXII.  INTERMEZZO 266 

XXIII.  TRIANGLE 273 

XXIV.  CIVIL  WAR 285 

XXV.  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 301 

XXVI.  SALVAGE     .     .     .     ,     .     .     .     .312 


FOREWORD 

THE  day  after  Merrill's  disappearance  I  re 
ceived  by  express  a  box  containing  a  jumbled 
mass  of  papers,  some  typewritten  but  evi 
dently  Merrill's  composition,  and  some  in  his  hand 
writing.  No  explanatory  letter  accompanied  this 
manuscript.  I  have  received  no  message  from  him 
since.  These  papers  I  have  studied  carefully.  They 
do  not  solve  the  newspaper  "mystery"  of  his  exit. 
They  do  explain  his  experience  of  living,  so  far  as 
a  man  can  explain  his  life  by  conscientious  self- 
analysis  and  candid  recording  of  his  thought  and 
action. 

Probably  Merrill  was  not  a  great  man,  although 
he  sat  high  in  the  councils  of  state  and  many  of  his 
enthusiastic  friends  thought  that  he  might  some  day 
reach  the  presidency.  But  his  life  was  to  my  mind 
a  great  life,  a  constant  struggle  for  domination  be 
tween  powerful  mind  motives — vanities,  idealisms; 
— and  powerful  body  motives — educated  appetites, 
flesh  hungers.  A  strong  mind  and  a  strong  body 
fought  together  and  against  each  other  in  a  life-long 
war  against  the  world  and  a  civil  war  within  the 
warrior. 

In  the  pages  that  follow,  Merrill  will  tell  his  own 
story,  arranged  for  the  most  part  in  chapters  as  he 


vi  FOREWORD 

wrote  them.  At  times  I  have  felt  that  the  manu 
script  was  too  detailed  or  tiresomely  technical  to  be 
of  general  interest,  and  I  have  condensed  it;  and 
there  were  gaps  in  the  narrative  where  I  have  sup 
plied  a  little  history. 

But  it  is  clear  to  me  that  Merrill  did  not  wish 
to  leave  behind  him  a  mere  story  of  his  life,  as 
such  a  tale  is  commonly  written.  He  tried  to  write 
down  how  his  mind  developed  as  his  bodily  powers 
waxed  and  waned.  Most  of  all  he  sought  to  make 
comprehensible  that  elusive  thing  called  the  spirit, 
which,  he  believed,  supplies  the  motive  power  of 
life.  He  had  no  liking  for  the  mechanistic,  chemical 
idea  of  life.  He  came  more  and  more  to  put  his 
faith  in  the  existence  of  a  spiritual  force  having  no 
dimensions,  infinite  in  power,  which  energizes  all  life. 

He  makes  this  most  plain  in  his  chapter  entitled : 
"The  God  Who  Grew"  where  he  discusses  the 
dynamic  power  of  sex  in  energizing  men  and  women 
to  accomplish  the  sexless  purpose  of  life.  His  story 
of  his  life  is  really  the  story  of  The  God  Who  Grew 
in  himself — the  development  of  that  part  of  life 
which  he  believed  to  be  immortal.  But  since  there 
is  so  little  of  orthodox  religion  in  Merrill's  manu 
script,  and  since  the  theme  of  his  life  is  essentially 
that  of  a  man  always  seeking  first  to  formulate  some 
purpose  in  life  and  then  to  accomplish  something  of 
that  purpose,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  entitle  his 
work  with  a  thumbnail  sketch  of  what  the  author 
tried  to  be:  A  Man  of  Purpose. 

D.  R. 


BOOK  I 
MYTH 


CHAPTER  I 
"HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP" 

UNTIL  I  was  twenty-four  years  old  I  was  being 
brought  up  by  my  parents.  I  would  not  say 
that  I  was  being  educated — because  at  the  age 
of  twenty-four  I  was  not  a  well-educated  person.  Yet 
my  parents  had  done  well  the  job  which  they  set  out 
to  do  with  the  red-faced,  helpless  little  animal  who 
yelled  his  resentment  at  the  annoyances  of  birth  on 
June  30,  1875.  So  I  shall  use  a  homely  phrase  and 
say  that  I  had  a  good  bringing-up. 

They  named  me  Rodney — my  mother's  maiden 
name.  I  have  been  grateful  many  times  since  for  the 
names  they  did  not  give  me,  names  which  decorate 
some  of  my  friends  as  pink  ribbons  adorn  a  bulldog. 
They  coddled  me  for  six  years  in  sickness  and  in 
health.  Then  I  was  sent  to  school  and  was  taught 
things  for  eighteen  years.  I  did  not  learn  a  great 
deal  from  my  teachers  or  my  books,  because  during 
most  of  my  school  days  living  had  no  meaning  or 
purpose  to  me.  Therefore,  I  did  not  absorb  or 
digest  much  knowledge  about  how  to  live. 

There  is  little  real  interest  in  being  told  how  to 


4      "HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP " 

do  a  thing  before  one  knows  why  he  is  doing  it. 
Hence,  until  I  had  some  notion  of  why  I  was  living, 
I  was  not  intensely  interested  in  learning  how  to  live. 

As  a  result,  between  the  ages  of  six  and  twelve  I 
declined  from  the  proud  position  of  a  "star  pupil" 
to  that  of  a  "mischief-maker"  whose  scholarship 
marks  were  only  fair.  If  my  teachers  had  sensed  the 
reason  they  probably  would  have  told  me  that  nobody 
knew  why  he  was  living,  and  advised  me  to  learn  how 
to  live  and  then  to  live  well  and  to  wait  patiently 
until  after  death  to  learn  why  I  had  lived.  The 
hungry  mind  of  youth  is  usually  fed  that  sort  of 
chaff. 

I  remember  well  the  joy  of  my  first  school  days. 
For  two  years  I  had  studied  my  gayly  painted  blocks 
and  my  highly  illustrated  linen  books,  with  the 
encouragement  of  a  wondering  and  wonderful 
mother.  My  early  rapid  progress  convinced  both 
mother  and  father  that  their  first-born  was  a  prodigy. 
Few  parents  require  much  convincing  on  this  score. 
Their  praise  stirred  my  vanity — always  a  powerful 
incentive — and  I  redoubled  my  efforts  to  astonish 
them.  When  I  entered  school  I  found  a  wider  field 
before  me — the  astonishing  of  a  large  company 
of  children  who  did  not  know  that  c-a-t  spelled 
"cat,"  or — still  more  marvelous  achievement — that 
a-p-r-i-c-o-t  spelled  "apricot"  which  was  a  f-r-u-i-t. 

It  had  been  the  delight  of  my  parents  to  give  me 
the  newspaper  in  the  presence  of  admiring  guests 
who  gasped  and  exclaimed  while  I  read  the  news  of 
the  day,  spelling  out  carefully  the  unfamiliar  words. 


"HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP "      5 

So  on  my  fourth  day  in  school  I  staged  a  little  play 
for  public  attention  by  bringing  a  newspaper  with  me, 
which  I  read  ostentatiously.  The  teacher,  an  acidu 
lous  maiden  lady,  whose  methods  of  discipline  were 
always  some  form  of  humiliation,  summoned  me  to 
the  platform  with  the  announcement: 

"Rodney  Merrill  will  please  come  forward  and 
read  to  the  class  what  he  finds  so  interesting  in  the 
newspaper." 

Whereupon,  amid  giggles  and  whispers,  a  very 
small,  over-scrubbed  boy,  in  the  glory  of  a  broad 
white  collar  and  blue  bow  tie,  wabbled  forward, 
scared  almost  dumb  with  the  success  of  his  strategy, 
and  began  to  read  in  a  quivering  voice  the  leading 
crime  story  of  the  day.  The  performance  came  to 
an  abrupt  end.  The  principal  of  the  school  was 
summoned  and  I  was  transferred  to  the  second  year 
grade. 

This  success  in  passing  through  first  year  in  four 
days  gave  me  an  evil  fame.  I  was  branded  preco 
cious,  although  there  was  in  fact  nothing  exceptional 
in  my  intellectual  powers.  But  I  had  to  live  up  to 
a  reputation.  I  felt  that  I  must  be  the  brightest  boy 
in  my  class  and  for  some  years  I  was  a  zealous 
student.  I  grew  physically  very  slowly  and,  there 
fore,  was  not  successful  in  athletic  games.  So  vanity 
kept  me  working  away  at  my  books,  whereby  I  could 
excel  my  fellows.  Year  by  year  my  small  scholastic 
triumphs  grew.  I  recited  on  all  state  occasions: 
"The  Blue  and  the  Gray"  on  Decoration  Day,  "The 
Gettysburg  Address"  on  Lincoln's  birthday.  I  won 


6      "HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP " 

the  school  debating  championship.  I  wrote  a  prize 
essay  on  Patriotism — an  exquisite  example  of 
bombast:  "High  on  the  mount  of  civilization  stands 
Patriotism.  Flowers  of  peace,  invention  and  pros 
perity  bloom  about  her,  nourished  by  soil  rich  with 
the  blood  of  patriots." 

Then  came  my  last  year  in  the  elementary  school 
and,  with  the  highest  honors  within  reach,  my  intel 
lectual  stride  weakened;  I  lost  interest  in  the  race. 
It  did  not  seem  worth  while.  I  dawdled  through, 
graduating  easily  but  without  special  honor  and  not 
caring  much  for  the  ruin  of  my  early  reputation. 

Two  things  had  happened.  I  had  found  the  joy 
of  outdoor  games.  I  had  felt  the  lure  of  woman. 
Woman  as  she  appeared  to  me  wore  her  hair  in 
braids;  her  skirts  were  short  and  her  hands  were 
often  dirty.  But  her  scorn  would  chill  and  her  smile 
would  thrill  me  as  never  since  those  years  of  blissful 
ignorance. 

My  changed  view  of  life  was  simply  this:  I  be 
came  conscious  of  my  body  as  a  source  of  pleasure. 
Hitherto  my  body  had  been  a  source  of  pain.  My 
youth  was  quite  sickly.  I  had  all  the  typical  diseases 
— and  a  few  extras.  Toothaches  and  earaches  and 
headaches  companioned  me.  When  I  was  technically 
well  and  played  with  the  boys  I  was  clumsy,  weak 
and  inept.  When  I  curled  up  in  a  chair  with  my 
beloved  books  I  was  happy.  Exercising  my  mind 
brought  me  pleasure:  I  besieged  Troy  with  Achilles 
and  wandered  home  through  many  lands  with 
Ulysses.  I  feasted  with  the  gods  upon  Olympus. 


"HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP  "      7 

I  rode  beside  Caesar,  William  the  Conqueror  and 
Napoleon  across  the  battlefields  of  the  world.  The 
great  myth  of  history  enthralled  me. 

For  six  years  I  lived  in  stories  of  a  never-was 
past  and  in  dreams  of  a  never-to-be  future.  Then 
I  awoke  to  the  fact  of  the  present,  to  the  existence 
of  a  body  that  tingled,  that  exulted  in  muscular  emo 
tion,  that  had  queer  pain-sweet  sensations  at  the  touch 
of  a  girl's  hands. 

We  stayed  at  a  farm  house  the  summer  before  I 
entered  high  school  and  the  farmer  had  a  girl  a 
little  older  than  I — and  much  wiser.  Her  name  was 
Daisy.  We  romped  together  a  great  deal  after  I 
overcame  my  first  embarrassment  at  the  unmanly 
sport  of  playing  with  a  girl.  We  rowed  a  boat;  we 
picked  berries  along  the  roadside;  we  did  small 
chores  around  the  place.  Daisy  was  a  blue-eyed 
girl  with  yellow  hair.  She  was  soft  and  rounded 
without  being  fat.  The  girls  I  had  noticed  at  school 
were  mostly  brunettes  and  either  thin  or  fat.  At 
least  so  it  seemed  to  me,  because  Daisy  appeared 
entirely  different  from  any  girl  I  had  ever  known. 
She  seemed  all  pink  and  clean  and  ethereal  compared 
with  darker,  more  earthy  maids  at  school. 

She  wore  her  dresses  fairly  long,  but  she  was  quite 
a  tomboy  and  when  we  raced  or  climbed  fences  I 
often  observed  what  pretty  legs  she  had.  The  fact 
that  I  could  not  see  them  all  the  time  somehow 
increased  their  attractiveness  to  me  and  I  caught 
myself  watching  for  glimpses  of  their  hidden  beauty. 

I  thought  a  great  deal  about  Daisy  when  I  was 


8      "HE  HAD  A  GOOD  BRINGING-UP  " 

away  from  her,  and  when  I  was  with  her  I  was  quite 
happy  in  a  strange,  scared  way.  After  a  while  I 
realized  I  was  deeply  in  love  with  Daisy — so  deeply 
in  love  that  I  dreaded  to  offend  her  by  any  familiari 
ties  which  she  might  not  like.  I  thought  she  would 
appreciate  the  respect  I  thus  exhibited.  Perhaps  she 
did,  but  I  have  doubted  it  in  later  years.  Particu 
larly  I  doubted  it  when  I  remembered  our  parting 
at  the  end  of  the  summer. 

Just  before  the  carriage  took  our  family  to  the 
station  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Daisy  in  the  hay-loft. 
I  said  much  about  writing  and  hoping  she  would 
visit  the  city  and  talked  vaguely  about  plans  for  the 
future  and  how  I  expected  she  would  see  me  come 
back  to  the  farm  some  day.  She  was  a  polite  but 
not  an  enthusiastic  listener.  Then  I  heard  father 
calling  and  we  clambered  down  to  the  ground.  At 
the  barn  door  I  stopped  and  got  hold  of  her  hand 
for  a  tremulous  moment  during  which  I  stammered 
something  about  hating  to  say  good-bye.  Then  she 
said:  "Silly,"  and  to  my  horror  and  joy  suddenly 
kissed  me  and  immediately  pushed  me  out  into  the 
publicity  of  the  barn-yard,  where  the  carriage  was 
waiting.  Five  minutes  later  we  drove  away  and  I 
never  saw  Daisy  again. 

All  the  way  home  I  wondered  if  I  had  not  made 
a  mistake  in  feeling  that  she  would  have  resented  a 
less  respectful  adoration  than  that  I  had  given  her 
all  summer.  A  retrospect  of  lost  opportunities  sad 
dened  my  reflections  for  many  days.  Such  was  my 
first  romance. 


CHAPTER  II 
PLAYTIME 

A  the  unripe  age  of  thirteen  I  entered  high 
school.  I  covered  my  thin,  stockinged  legs 
with  long  trousers.  I  was  addressed  by  my 
teachers  as  Mr.  Merrill.  The  boy  Rodney  was  offi 
cially  a  man.  Nor  did  I  dispute  the  official  decree. 
I  had  had  whooping  cough,  measles  and  chicken  pox. 
I  had  learned  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic.  I 
had  studied  history,  civil  government  and  English 
composition.  I  was  prepared  to  study  Latin  and 
algebra.  In  my  training  as  a  social  being  I  had  been 
to  dancing  school  for  two  winters.  I  had  taken  les 
sons  on  the  mandolin  and  I  had  made  love  to  a  pretty 
woman.  This  last  item  had  not  been  notable  as  an 
achievement — but  it  indicated  to  me  a  capacity  for 
amorous  adventure,  although  I  doubted  whether  I 
should  ever  desire  to  achieve  great  success  in  this 
phase  of  life. 

Lest  omission  should  reflect  upon  the  godliness  of 
my  parents,  I  should  add  to  my  qualifications  for 
manhood  that  I  had  attended  Sunday  school.  In 
religion  my  education  had  been  eclectic  and  in 
effective.  As  my  parents  were  not  members 
of  any  church,  they  had  allowed  me  to  follow  my 
companions  from  year  to  year — so  that  my  instruc- 

9 


io  PLAYTIME 

tion  in  the  Bible  had  been  received  under  Methodist, 
Baptist  and  Universalist  auspices.  The  theological 
distinctions  in  Christian  faith,  therefore,  made  no 
impression  on  me  as  a  child  and  as  a  result  have 
always  irritated  me  in  mature  years.  I  obtained  not 
the  faintest  understanding  of  the  meaning  of  Chris 
tianity  during  my  Sunday  school  studies.  The  story 
of  the  New  Testament  interested  me  greatly.  Some 
how  Christ,  the  hero,  caught  my  imagination,  but 
the  divine  element — the  philosophy  of  life — made 
no  impression.  My  curiosity  about  the  meaning  of 
life  was  not  even  excited.  No  belief  in  a  hereafter 
was  generated.  Indeed  at  this  time  I  was  desper 
ately  afraid  of  death — not  from  any  dread  of  a 
specific  hereafter — but  because  of  the  feeling  of  a 
black  abyss  of  nothingness  beyond  the  pleasant  day, 
wherein  there  would  be  no  mother — the  one  person 
whom  I  felt  indispensable  to  my  happiness. 

Thus  I  entered  high  school  a  true  agnostic — 
religiously  blank — yet  ethically  a  fairly  conscientious 
boy,  for  I  believed  my  mother's  statements  of  right 
and  wrong  implicitly  and  wanted  to  merit  her 
approval.  My  father  was  a  stern  man  full  of 
troubles  which  vexed  his  spirit.  I  feared  him,  but 
I  did  not  dislike  him.  In  fact  when  he  was  in  a 
cheery  mood  I  was  happy  with  him,  but  always  a 
bit  fearful,  as  one  playing  with  a  half-tame  bear. 

It  might  seem  surprising  that,  with  my  newly 
aroused  and  vivid  interest  in  womankind,  I  did  not 
find  any  objects  of  adoration  in  my  four  years' 
preparation  for  college.  I  think,  however,  that  I 


PLAYTIME  ii 

was  too  young  to  merit  the  interest  of  the  young 
ladies  and  too  conscious  of  my  small  size  to  play  the 
gallant.  But  my  inability  to  hold  my  own  with  my 
fellows  did  not  dissuade  me  from  playing  games. 
Indeed,  when  I  peer  back  at  them,  my  high  school 
days  seem  as  one  long  romp. 

There  were  hours  in  the  gymnasium  pulling 
weights,  leaping  and  swinging,  boxing  and  wrestling; 
there  were  hours  of  rough  and  tumble,  scuffling  and 
running  and  battling  with  larger  boys  all  over  the 
neighborhood  and  in  and  around  our  various  homes. 
I  have  vivid  recollections  of  broken  windows  and 
cracked  glass  doors,  of  scraped  shins,  torn  hands 
and  lumpy  foreheads.  There  was  baseball  in  spring 
and  summer,  football  in  the  fall  and  skating  in  the 
winter.  All  these  joys  were  to  be  had  in  the  park, 
miles  from  my  home.  Always  I  seemed  to  be  play 
ing  hookey.  Always  I  was  coming  home  late,  pedal 
ing  along  on  my  bicycle  in  desperate  speed,  hoping 
to  escape  punishment. 

There  was  a  narrow  trunk  strap  with  which  I  was 
beaten,  when  particularly  guilty.  The  big  red  welts 
on  my  short,  shaking  legs  caused  my  mother  more 
pain  than  me — and  they  hurt  me  sufficiently.  As  a 
result  mother  and  father  decided  not  to  use  corporal 
punishment  on  my  younger  brother  and  sister,  a  deci 
sion  which  I  approved,  but  somewhat  resentfully, 
as  coming  a  trifle  late. 

Intellectually  my  "college  preparatory  course"  was 
blank  of  any  achievement  except  that  of  graduating 
on  an  irreducible  minimum  of  mental  labor.  How- 


12  PLAYTIME 

ever,  there  was  one  tour  de  force,  reminiscent  of 
my  lost  days  of  grade  school  glory.  A  prize  was 
offered  one  Friday  for  the  pupil  who  could  recite 
from  memory  the  most  verses  of  Macaulay's 
Horatius.  I  played  ball  all  Saturday;  but  Sunday 
I  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  from  breakfast  until  bed 
time  and,  just  to  be  sure  of  winning,  learned  the 
whole  poem.  On  Monday  morning  when  I  recited 
the  seventy  stanzes — over  five  hundred  and  sixty 
verses — without  a  break,  a  long-forgotten  thrill 
stirred  me  into  new  ambitions.  For  a  week  there 
after  I  was  a  person  of  note  and  in  the  resultant 
elation  determined  to  become  again  a  model  student. 

"You  can  work,  can't  you,"  remarked  one  exas 
perated  teacher.  "You  see  there  is  no  excuse  for 
your  poor  marks  except  laziness." 

But  the  spring  buds  soon  called  me,  and  when 
the  April  rains  ceased  and  the  green  grass  of  May- 
time  was  covered  with  shouting  boys,  and  the  crack 
of  the  baseball  bat  sounded  through  the  open 
windows,  the  books  became  dull  things  and  I  scam 
pered  out  into  the  sunshine.  I  felt  wicked  very  often 
— but  nevertheless  quite  happy.  I  know  my  parents 
and  teachers  were  well  meaning  in  trying  to  make 
me  feel  wicked  and  my  life  is  no  such  success  as  to 
prove  that  they  were  wrong.  But  the  more  I  see 
of  the  narrow  men  and  women,  overeducated  in 
books  and  undereducated  in  play,  who  establish  joy- 
killing  conventions  and  impose  gloomy  prohibitions 
upon  their  fellows,  the  more  I  grow  to  believe  in 
play  for  the  education  of  children,  to  lift  up  the  joy 


PLAYTIME  13 

level  of  a  rather  sad  old  world.  Good  play  is  highly 
educative.  The  most  backward  boy  at  figures  will 
learn  to  keep  a  baseball  score,  and  a  game  of  hand 
ball  gives  unforgettable  demonstration  that  the  angle 
of  incidence  equals  the  angle  of  reflection.  As  an 
education  in  social  ethics  few  methods  of  instruction 
equal  playing  outdoor  games.  It  is  usually  possible 
to  pick  out  of  one's  business  acquaintances  the  men 
who  have  had  no  training  in  athletics  by  noting  their 
poor  sportsmanship  in  dealing  with  their  fellow  men. 
I  played  too  much  in  school  time.  I  am  glad  that 
I  played  too  much  rather  than  too  little.  I  have 
played  too  much  all  through  my  life.  I  am  glad  that 
I  have  played  too  much  rather  than  too  little.  To 
play  too  much  is  a  sin  against  the  abilities — a  cramp 
ing  of  one's  achievement.  To  play  too  little  is  a 
sin  against  the  soul — a  cramping  of  one's  character. 
It  is  my  faith  that  the  work  we  do  and  leave  behind 
counts  for  something — but  that  the  character  we 
build  and  carry  on  counts  a  thousand  fold.  I  did  not 
feel  this  as  a  boy.  I  had  no  philosophy  of  living. 
But  I  believe  my  instinct  guided  me  in  the  right  direc 
tion,  though  I  may  have  gone  too  far. 


CHAPTER  III 
A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

"  T  ~W  OW  can  he  be  so  dull  about  anything  so 
interesting?"  exclaimed  "Chuck"  Dunham, 
as  we  fled  from  a  dismal  lecture  on  Ethics 
into  the  joyous  sunshine. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  May  during  my  third  year 
of  college.  The  campus  was  sprinkled  with  little 
gossiping  groups.  We  sprawled  on  a  sunny  slope 
and  proceeded  to  a  topic  of  constant  controversy  be 
tween  us:  "Is  there  any  abstract  right  and  wrong?" 
This  is  a  subject  no  one  would  have  thought  of  dis 
cussing  with  Dunham  on  first  acquaintance.  Dunham 
played  football.  He  was  a  beautiful  raging  beast  on 
the  field,  leaping,  twisting,  tearing  his  way  through 
opposition.  When  I  tackled  him  in  practice,  hitting 
him  hard  with  fifteen  pounds  more  weight  than  he 
carried,  it  always  hurt  me  far  more  than  him.  He 
was  a  ring-leader  in  student  pranks. 

In  physical  action  he  was  always  the  full-blooded, 
irresponsible  boy.  But  mentally  he  was  a  brooding 
pessimist,  doubtful  of  all  things  good  and  certain 
of  all  things  evil;  yet  eager  for  discussion  and  alert 
to  challenge  assumptions,  forcing  his  friends  either 
to  'defend  their  opinions  or  to  conceal  them  in  his 
presence. 

14 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  15 

The  healthy  boy  often  assumes  cynicism,  but  true 
pessimism  is  a  rarity  in  youth  and  Dunham  fascinated 
me.  At  my  suggestion  we  were  rooming  together 
this  year.  I  hated  his  philosophy,  but  he  stirred  my 
mind  and  I  loved  his  play-spirit. 

"Coolidge  is  dull,"  I  agreed,  when  we  had  lighted 
our  pipes  and  settled  down  for  our  customary  "jaw" 
after  an  Ethics  lecture,  "but  he  is  right  and  you  are 
wrong.  There  are  some  fundamental  ideas  that  per 
sist  in  all  times  and  among  all  races.  For  example, 
murder  is  wrong." 

"When  it  isn't  legally  approved,"  snapped  Dun 
ham.  "A  nice  war  murder  is  all  right." 

"Oh,  there's  no  use  going  over  that  ground  again. 
You  won't  admit  my  distinctions." 

"Yes  I  will,"  he  countered;  "your  distinctions 
prove  my  proposition — every  right  and  wrong  is  rela 
tive." 

"But  I  claim  that  there  must  be  a  goal  of  life — 
something  better  that  we  work  toward,  and  abstract 
right  or  wrong  is  that  which  seems  or  does  not  seem 
to  carry  us  forward." 

"Always,  the  goal,"  jeered  "Chuck,"  his  dark  face 
flushing  and  his  brown  eyes  gleaming  with  combat, 
"the  sentimental  goal.  Poor  old  life  can't  justify 
itself — so  we  must  have  an  after-life — the  mirage 
toward  which  we  hurry  along.  You  set  up  a  God 
the  Forbidder,  with  a  table  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
things  you  must  do,  things  you  can't  do.  You  cut 
yourself  off  from  all  the  joys  of  living  real  emotions 
and  so  you  seek  your  pleasure  in  the  sentimental 


16  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

emotion  that  you  are  living  toward  a  goal.  But  then 
you  revel  in  diluted  emotion  anyhow,  Rod.  You  took 
Dolly  Pitcher  to  the  dance  Saturday." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  bright  remark  ?  That 
she  hasn't  any  brains?  I  noticed  you  took  Mabel 
Johnson." 

"Exactly  the  distinction.  Neither  of  us  chose 
brains.  We  wanted  to  dance.  You  took  Dolly,  slim 
little  lisping  Dolly  and  you  held  her  gently  for  fear 
she  would  break  and  you  slid  around  the  floor  all 
evening  with  her,  drinking  skim  milk  emotion.  May 
be  Dolly  let  you  hold  her  hand  in  the  cab.  You  may 
have  had  nerve  enough  to  kiss  her.  If  you  did  you 
had  a  sweet  little  thrill  and  a  slight  taste  of  lip  salve. 
Now  I  took  Mabel,  who  has  no  brains,  but,  ye  gods ! 
she  feels  things  and  she  isn't  afraid  of  showing  what 
she  feels.  I  just  swam  around  that  dance  hall  with 
her  soft  supple  lovingness  all  wrapped  in  my  arms 
— and  in  the  cab  going  home — did  I  make  love  to 
that  sweet  young  thing?  Did  I?  My  boy,  the  story 
is  not  for  these  young  ears  and  it  would  horrify 
the  dean — but  my  boy,  my  boy,  I  lived,  lived 
gorgeously  all  Saturday  evening;  and  you — poor  fish 
— you  nibbled  at  life  with  pretty  little  Dolly." 

"Oh,  I  won't  attempt  to  vie  with  you  as  a  Don 
Juan,"  I  began  loftily,  but  was  interrupted  with 

"There  you  go  with  your  moral  superiority.  You 
are  a  pure  young  man,  guaranteed  one  hundred  per 
cent  pure,  the  fond  mother's  delight.  But  you're 
twice  as  dangerous  as  I  am.  I  won't  do  any  harm 
to  Mabel  or  any  other  innocent  young  maid.  But 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  17 

I'll  learn  my  own  emotions  and  some  day  I'll  marry 
some  girl,  knowing  enough  at  least  to  guess  what 
kind  of  woman  I  can  be  faithful  to — if  any.  But 
you — with  your  moral  nature — you'll  marry  the  first 
girl  you  get  courage  enough,  or  encouragement 
enough,  to  make  love  to — and  then  Heaven  help  you 

both  I" 

I  recollect  this  talk  with  "Chuck"  Dunham  very 
well.  It  is  one  of  those  peaks  of  memory  that  loom 
higher  and  higher  as  one  moves  farther  away.  My 
moral  philosophy  at  this  time  was  a  shapeless  thing 
and  to  label  my  deity  God  the  Forbidder,  just  when 
life  offered  the  prospect  of  a  thousand  pleasing 
adventures,  was  disconcerting  and  gave  me  pause. 
Was  it  wholly  illusion  that  a  curious  sixth  sense 
seemed  to  register  in  a  young  brain  stimulated  by  a 
stein  of  beer?  If  it  were  wrong  to  experiment  with 
alcohol,  if  it  were  a  sin  in  the  sight  of  the  Forbidder, 
then  I  ought  not  to  explore  further  for  the  answer 
to  that  query.  Was  it  wrong  to  make  love  to  a 
woman  whom  one  did  not  wish  to  marry — even  if 
one  could?  Should  all  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
other  sex  be  comprehended  in  the  knowledge  of  one 
woman?  Was  this  a  full  life,  this  life  of  prohibi 
tions,  this  life  of  being  good,  not  by  instinct,  but, 
contrary  to  instinct,  being  good  according  to  the  rules 
established  by  others,  who  either  knew  good  from 
having  been  bad — or  else  knew  it  not  at  all  ?  Could 
I  ever  learn  to  be  good,  except  by  knowing  evil  my 
self  and  rejecting  it? 

Of  course,  I  realized  that  it  was  not  necessary  to 


i8  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

taste  all  things  evil  in  order  to  know  enough  to  shun 
them.  One  could  reason  by  analogy.  One  could 
learn  to  recognize  the  danger  of  fire  in  the  nearness 
of  heat — although  probably  only  after  suffering  a 
few  burns.  But  I  had  been  taught  by  a  Professor 
of  Psychology  that  imagination  could  only  build  upon 
the  known;  that  one  could  not  imagine  a  thing  utterly 
outside  of  his  own  knowledge.  Could  life  be  com 
prehended  adequately  and  lived  fully  if  a  large  part 
of  one's  knowledge  were  to  be  obtained  second 
hand? 

Older  people  often  fail  to  discern  the  intense 
curiosity  of  adolescence  regarding  right  and  wrong. 
Sometimes  in  a  dormitory  room,  or  at  the  fraternity 
house  a  group  of  a  dozen  boys  would  sit  until  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  arguing  questions  of 
ethics,  questions  of  individual  and  social  psychology. 
Lessons  in  dead  languages  and  ancient  history  re 
mained  unlearned  while  we  battled  over  world  old 
problems  that  were  vivid  and  immediate,  that 
affected  our  conduct  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow. 
Perhaps  the  debate  would  end  in  a  physical  tussle. 
I  remember  with  delight  the  spectacle  of  a  short 
muscular  apostle  of  fatalism  sitting  astride  a  pros 
trate  lanky  exponent  of  free  will,  inside  a  jeering 
ring  of  debaters  on  the  campus  one  moonlit  night  in 
June. 

"I  pummel  you  for  your  soul's  sake,"  declaimed 
the  victor,  while  we  shrieked  our  merriment.  "It 
was  ordained  that  my  spirit  should  be  intolerant  of 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  19 

yours.     Exercise  your  free  will  and  conquer  Fate  if 
you  can!" 

The  sweaty  struggles  of  the  football  field  taught 
us  lessons  somewhat  better  learned  than  many 
studied  in  the  class  rooms. 

"Hit  'em  hard"  and  "get  your  man,"  may  sound 
like  brutal  instruction,  but  it  went  hand  in  hand  with 
the  doctrine  of  "play  the  game  fair";  and  failure 
to  learn  all  the  lesson  meant  humiliation  and  the 
scorn  of  one's  fellows,  the  social  taboo — far  more 
effective  than  any  written  law  or  physical  punish 
ment. 

Let  me  here  write  down  my  tribute  to  the  great 
teacher  of  my  college  days,  the  clean  souled  "director 
of  athletics,"  as  he  was  described  in  the  university 
catalogue.  He  was  known  to  the  newspapers  as  the 
football  coach,  to  the  students  as  "the  old  man," 
and  to  all  graduates  of  the  university  who  had  ever 
come  under  his  influence  as  a  builder  of  men.  He 
had  studied  for  the  ministry,  but  with  a  vision  and 
an  instinct  for  service,  of  extraordinary  keenness,  he 
had  abandoned  the  lesser  opportunities  of  the  pulpit 
to  give  himself  wholly  to  the  task  of  training  boys 
to  be  men,  through  the  conduct  of  athletic  sports. 
In  his  chosen  work  as  a  developer  of  the  ideals  of 
youth,  he  was  the  most  successful  man  I  have  ever 
known.  The  faculty  included  men  of  deep  learning, 
men  of  true  wisdom,  scholars  and  pioneers  in  the 
search  for  truth.  They  rendered  full  service  for 
a  small  money  reward.  Some  have  made  an  impress 
on  their  generation;  some  will  impress  generations 


20  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

to  come.  But  "the  old  man"  built  character  day  in 
day  out,  in  the  plastic  minds  of  young  men — a  price 
less  service  to  them  and  to  the  communities  which 
they  must  influence  in  their  mature  years. 

As  a  result  of  such  guidance  the  college  athletics 
in  which  I  had  a  small  part  was  something  more 
than  the  straining  struggle  for  championships,  which 
the  newspapers  overadvertise.  The  restrictions  of 
training  were  rigidly  imposed  during  most  of  the 
year  and  voluntarily  observed  to  a  large  extent  dur 
ing  the  rest  of  the  time.  I  grew  from  a  short  sapling 
into  a  fairly  robust  young  man  before  the  end  of 
my  senior  year,  entitled  to  wear  with  obvious  pride 
my  college  letter,  and  possessing  a  transient  impor 
tance  in  the  community.  But  even  a  star  athlete, 
which  I  was  not,  would  not  be  permitted  to  lose  his 
sense  of  proportion  under  the  old  man's  steadying 
influence.  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was  fitted  for  world 
conquest.  In  fact  my  main  comfort  during  my  last 
year  lay  in  the  thought  that  I  had  three  years  in  law 
school  ahead  of  me  in  which  to  prepare  to  earn  my 
living. 

The  desirability  of  being  able  to  earn  my  living 
had  been  impressed  upon  me  particularly  through  a 
young  woman  who  had  occupied  a  large  place  in  my 
thoughts  ever  since  I  had  met  her  during  my  junior 
year.  Like  most  western  universities  mine  was 
coeducational.  This  condition  may  have  many  bad 
effects  upon  the  exclusively  masculine  idea  of  college 
life,  but  it  has  at  least  one  good  effect  upon  the 
average  boy.  Woman  as  a  familiar  object,  as  a  part 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  21 

of  everyday  living,  loses  some  of  the  illusory  charm 
of  the  unfamiliar.  Of  course,  youth  must  fall  in 
and^out  of  love,  but  the  ease  and  variety  of  pos 
sibilities  in  a  coeducational  college  does  cultivate 
some  sense  of  discrimination. 

I  do  not  believe  that  my  attitude  was  exceptional 
and  while  I  always  noted  a  score  or  more  of  girls 
with  whom  I  was  sure  I  could  fall  madly  in  love, 
if  marooned  on  a  desert  isle,  the  variety  of  charms 
offered  somehow  prevented  me  from  surrendering 
completely  to  any  one  attraction.  Yet  I  was  what 
my  mates  called  a  "concentrator,"  always  "rushing" 
some  girl  violently  for  a  few  weeks  or  months  and 
then  (usually  because  I  met  no  violent  interest  in 
return)  veering  away  to  some  new  discovery. 

But  from  the  day  when  Jeannette  and  I  collided, 
unintentionally,  in  the  blinding  rain;  to  be  precise, 
from  the  twelfth  day  of  April  in  the  year  1895,  mY 
vague  interests  in  woman  became  a  definite  desire 
to  be  with  one  woman.  For  a  long  time  this  desire 
was  what  a  mother  might  call  quite  pure.  As  Dun 
ham  had  said  no  mother  need  fear  me.  I  courted 
Jeanette  assiduously.  I  felt  always  somewhat  in 
toxicated  with  the  pleasure  of  her  presence.  When 
I  was  away  from  her  I  dramatized  myself  as  an 
ardent  wooer  in  a  thousand  different  situations.  But 
when  I  was  with  her  I  was  completely  reticent  as 
to  my  amorous  feelings. 

Before  that  day  in  April  I  had  observed  her  for 
weeks  in  a  lecture  course  which  we  both  attended. 
I  was  never  absent  from  that  class.  I  seated  myself 


22  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

where  I  could  see  her  profile  and  I  spent  a  goodly 
portion  of  the  hour  studying  her.  She  built  her 
masses  of  soft  fine  hair  into  a  sort  of  golden  aureole, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Her  face  in  this  help 
ful  frame  had  the  charm  of  a  wild  flower — not 
beauty — but  delicate  vivacity  and  grace.  Her  eyes 
were  beautiful,  more  from  their  expression  than  from 
any  quality  I  could  analyze.  They  were  gray  green 
flecked  with  brown,  a  little  startling  in  combination 
with  corn-colored  hair,  but  altogether  attractive, 
alight  with  intelligence  and  humor,  a  trifle  quizzical 
and  mocking  it  seemed,  whenever  I  caught  her  look 
ing  at  me.  Only  on  rare  and  sweet  occasions  did  I 
note  a  ray  of  tenderness.  Her  lips  were  rather  thin, 
but  lithe  and  full  of  expression. 

To  be  honest,  I  must  add  to  the  description  of  her 
charms  that  Jeannette  Hull  was  a  very  shapely 
person.  It  may  be  that  the  perfection  of  her  figure 
lent  an  attraction  to  her  face  that  otherwise  I  should 
not  have  seen.  Yet  in  equal  honesty  I  doubt  that, 
because,  much  as  I  have  always  appreciated  beauty 
of  form  in  women,  I  was  more  swayed  in  college 
days  than  since  by  the  prevailing  idea  that  a  girl 
must  be  pretty  as  a  prerequisite  to  all  other  attrac 
tions.  Chuck  Dunham,  a  severe  critic,  admitted  that 
Jeannette  was  "easy  to  look  at,"  but  he  described 
her  figure  with  an  indecent  extravagance  which  I  shall 
not  imitate.  It  will  be  enough  to  quote  his  conclusion 
as  amply  descriptive :  "She  certainly  is  all  there." 

The  collision  in  the  rain  occurred  many  weeks 
after  Jeannette  began  to  absorb  so  much  of  my 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  23 

thought.  She  had  come  into  the  University  after 
two  years  in  a  girls'  school  and  she  associated  with 
a  group  of  girls  whom  I  did  not  know,  so  I  had  not 
been  able  to  meet  her  in  any  ordinary  way.  But 
when  I  hurried  around  the  corner  of  a  building  with 
my  head  down  and  had  to  retrieve  her  and  her 
umbrella  out  of  the  muddy  roadway  into  which  I 
had  flung  them,  it  was  natural  that  a  future  acquaint 
ance  should  be  presumed.  I  escorted  her  across 
the  campus  watchful  that  no  other  ruffian  should 
buffet  her.  There  was  a  yellow  glow  in  the  sky;  it 
was  a  sullen  jaundiced  afternoon  until  I  met  her.  It 
was  the  radiant  morning  of  a  new  life  as  we  splashed 
along  the  paths  and  the  pelting  water  tingled  sweetly 
on  my  face.  Her  amused  eyes  caressed  me.  Not 
since  Daisy  had  kissed  me  at  the  barn  door  had  I 
felt  such  an  elation. 

Two  days  later  we  took  a  long  walk.  I  carried  a 
volume  of  Browning  as  fitted  to  my  mood;  also  to 
impress  her  with  my  culture.  She  knew  that  I  was 
a  football  player  and  I  hoped  to  please  her  as  a 
dancer.  But  my  main  attack  was  intended  to  be 
intellectual.  On  our  next  walk  she  countered  with 
Swinburne,  of  whom  my  previous  knowledge  was 
small.  I  found  to  my  surprise  that  he  expressed  my 
exaltations  better  than  Browning. 

It  was  a  delightful  spring.  We  walked  and  boated, 
and  drove  now  and  then  into  the  country  behind  a 
placid  livery  hack.  This  was  before  the  automobile 
era.  We  talked  incessantly,  courteously  allowing 
each  other  a  fair  division  of  time.  I  suspect  that 


24  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

she  listened  generously  more  than  I.  We  discussed 
religion,  society,  business,  men  and  women,  even  love 
— with  a  certain  reserved  defiance.  Always  our  ideas 
were  unconventional.  Anything  conventional  was 
inevitably  ridiculous  in  our  sight.  We  refused  to 
be  sufficiently  conventional  to  make  love  to  each 
other.  Yet  I  was  certain  that  I  was  deeply  in  love 
with  her,  and  she  told  me — many  years  too  late — 
that  she  thought  I  was  quaintly  young,  but  was  sure 
when  I  grew  older  she  would  care  for  me  more  than 
anyone  she  had  ever  met. 

The  more  I  saw  of  Jeannette  as  the  months 
hurried  by  and  graduation  time  drew  near,  the  more 
doubtful  I  became  of  the  existence  of  that  forbidding 
deity  I  had  once  revered.  It  was  no  desire  to  sow 
wild  oats  that  brought  about  this  change.  It  was 
more  the  appreciation  of  the  complexities  of  ethical 
questions,  the  necessity  of  experience  for  personal 
conviction,  the  determination  to  live  fully,  the  growth 
of  youthful  antagonism  to  all  conventional  restraints. 
Indeed,  far  from  seeking  the  promiscuous  adventures 
of  a  life  of  wine,  women  and  song,  I  had  come  to  a 
definite  resolve  to  maintain  a  quite  unusual,  I  might 
almost  say  a  priggish,  purity. 

It  appealed  to  me  that  some  day  I  should  either 
marry  Jeannette  or  some  one  whom  I  cared  even 
more  about — if  that  were  possible.  Yet  I  had  time 
and  time  again  paraded  before  her  my  scorn  of  the 
man  about  town,  who,  wearied  with  dissolute  folly, 
offers  his  soiled  and  threadbare  passions  to  a  pure 
young  girl,  who  would  regard  his  offer  as  an  insult 


A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN  25 

were  it  not  for  her  innocent  ignorance  of  what  a  gay 
life  really  means.  I  had  announced  my  firm  inten 
tion  of  presenting  myself  to  my  best  beloved  as  clean 
in  body  and  soul  as  I  expected  her  to  be.  The  eco 
nomic  factors  in  the  relations  of  men  and  women 
received  little  consideration  in  my  collegiate  philoso 
phy.  In  fact,  my  thoughts  were  just  the  raw  and 
unorganized  ingredients  of  ideas — mental  food,  but 
inedible.  I  was  just  beginning  to  appreciate  the  de 
sirability  of  mixing  and  cooking  them,  but  the  bread 
and  cake  produced  by  my  early  efforts  were  highly 
indigestible. 

Jeannette  was  about  my  age  in  years  and  hence, 
being  a  woman,  was  much  older  in  wisdom.  She 
watched  my  experiments  in  mental  cookery  with  in 
terest,  tactfully  declining  to  swallow  the  results  but 
encouraging  me  to  continue  in  my  labors.  She  smiled 
a  little  wistfully  at  my  resolutions  of  purity,  but  sym 
pathized  more  obviously  with  my  resentment  at  the 
commands  of  the  Forbidder  transmitted  through 
his  self-anointed  spokesmen.  Through  our  discus 
sion  we  came  to  a  common  thought,  somewhat  dimly 
outlined,  of  the  Great  Builder.  We  tried  to  put 
fragments  of  history  together  like  a  broken  puzzle 
picture  and  to  find  in  it  some  design  to  make  up  a 
blue  print  of  some  part  of  the  eternal  plan. 

The  more  we  discussed  the  possibility  of  such  a 
plan,  the  mistier  the  idea  became — and  yet  strangely 
enough  the  more  convinced  we  were  that  there  was 
a  plan. 

At  the  end  of  spring,  1896,  Jeannette  and  I  made 


26  A  PURE  YOUNG  MAN 

two  in  a  long  line  that  passed  before  the  president 
of  the  University.  To  each  he  gave  a  solemn  parch 
ment  wherein  the  world  was  informed  in  glowing 
Latin  that  the  possessor  had  become  one  of  the 
educated  elect,  that  he  or  she,  the  sex  making  no 
distinction,  was  a  Bachelor  of  Arts.  In  truth  I  had 
little  conception  of  art  or  of  the  arts  in  any  sense  in 
which  the  words  may  be  used.  During  my  four 
years  in  college  I  had  learned  a  little  about  men  and 
women,  about  their  motives  and  habits  and  how  to 
work  with  and  sometimes  to  lead  my  fellows.  Such 
social  knowledge  as  I  had  I  was  least  conscious  of. 
Such  bookish  knowledge  as  I  felt  conscious  of  I  pos 
sessed  the  least. 


CHAPTER  IV 
LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

THE  first  night  after  I  had  arrived  in  Cam 
bridge  I  drew  my  chair  up  before  the  log 
fire  in  my  room  in  Oxford  street,  lighted  a 
pipe,  stretched  out  my  legs  and  puffed  rapturously 
at  the  buff-colored  ceiling.  At  last  I  was  a  free  man. 
Home  and  family,  dearly  beloved  but  imprisoning, 
were  a  thousand  miles  away.  The  petty  restraints 
upon  boyhood  were  gone.  I  was  acknowledged  com 
petent  to  rule  all  the  hours  of  my  days.  College  had 
been  for  me  a  super-high  school.  True  I  had  lived 
on  the  campus  for  the  last  two  years,  but  a  score  of 
continuing  obligations  bound  me  to  my  family. 
Worst  of  all  I  had  no  money  freedom.  Now  I  had 
a  fixed  allowance,  within  which  limitation  desire  in 
stead  of  galling  logic  could  determine  extravagance 
or  thrift. 

I  was  free.  I  had  registered  at  the  Law  School. 
I  had  dined  in  Memorial  Hall.  I  was  a  full-fledged 
graduate  student.  I  was  entering  upon  the  serious 
work  of  life — a  definite  preparation  to  earn  my  own 
living.  I  intended  to  work  hard,  to  show  that  I 
merited  freedom.  I  felt  exultant.  Life  was  about 
to  become  real  and  earnest. 

27 


28  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  on  the  door.  I  called: 
"Come  in." 

A  slender  young  man  with  a  gaunt  nervous  face 
stood  in  the  entrance. 

"My  name  is  Halliwell,"  he  said.  "I  room  across 
the  hall.  Princeton  '96,  doing  graduate  work  in 
English.  Mrs.  Colby  said  you  were  doing  Law.  I 
thought  we'd  better  meet  to-night  instead  of  to 
morrow  morning  in  the  bathroom.  I  look  better  in 
clothes." 

He  grinned  amiably,  showing  a  wide  line  of  flaw 
less  teeth  beneath  a  small  mustache. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  I  responded  heartily.  "My 
name  is  Merrill.  I've  just  arrived  from  Chicago 
and  I'm  so  glad  to  be  here  that  everything  looks 
good  to  me.  I  don't  think  I  should  mind  your 
appearance  in  your  bath." 

"That's  not  the  worst  of  me,"  said  Halliwell. 
"I  shall  probably  come  in  sometimes  very  drunk — 
not  regularly,  you  know — but  just  now  and  then. 
Hope  that  won't  shock  you.  I'm  a  serious  person, 
but  there  are  times  when  I  just  can't  resist  making 
a  fool  of  myself." 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  assist  you,"  I  said  ambigu 
ously. 

Thus  began  my  life-long  friendship  with  that 
strange  genius  who  caused  two  South  American  wars, 
who  destroyed  a  great  political  movement,  who 
wrote  a  fairy  tale  for  children  which  has  no  equal 
for  spiritual  and  verbal  beauty,  and  then  printed  a 
volume  of  poems  so  terrible  in  their  stark,  crude 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  29 

passion  that  the  book  was  forbidden  the  mails  and 
the  author  was  ostracized  by  almost  all  his  friends. 

Eugene  Halliwell  was  more  sincere  in  insincerity 
than  any  person  I  have  ever  known.  Ke  was  deter 
mined  to  exhibit  his  naked  soul  in  all  that  he  did, 
resolved  upon  shameless  candor,  yet  utterly  unable 
to  distinguish  between  a  mood  and  a  motive,  between 
a  whim  and  a  purpose.  If  a  night's  carousing  bred 
pessimism,  he  insisted  on  voicing  his  despondency 
and  affirming  it  to  be  a  conviction  of  his  soul.  The 
lewd  sensations  that  men  of  equal  honesty  suppress 
he  must  shout  from  the  housetops.  He  was  in  truth 
as  gentle  and  pure  a  man  as  I  have  ever  known, 
loyal  and  self-sacrificing  by  instinct.  He  has  a  world 
wide  notoriety  as  a  man  of  debasing  sensuality  and 
utter  selfishness,  a  treacherous  poseur,  who  brings 
evil  into  all  things  he  touches. 

My  anxious  friends  thought  he  led  me  astray  in 
Law  School.  If  so,  then  I  was  ready  for  someone 
to  lead  astray  and  at  least  he  never  cast  a  sneer 
upon  a  single  worthy  aspiration  that  I  expressed. 
Yet  throughout  my  life  my  good,  conservative 
friends  have  sniffed  and  scoffed  at  every  wholly  gen 
erous,  self-immolating  thought  that  I  have  expressed. 
It  has  been  "radical"  or  "impractical"  in  their  nar 
row  worldly  view.  Gene  Halliwell's  vision  never 
stopped  at  ant  heaps.  He  would  sketch  mountains 
into  the  background  of  the  uplands  of  my  dreams. 

In  Halliwell's  company  I  met  women  unlike  those 
I  had  ever  known  before  or  with  whom  I  have  ever 
associated  since.  I  have  heard  them  referred  to  as 


30  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

"fallen  women"  by  beautiful  females  who  have 
married  scrawny  old  men  whom  they  do  not  love, 
or  fat  young  men  whom  they  despise.  These  beauti 
ful  females  seldom  have  paid  the  price  for  which 
they  bought  comfort.  They  have  not  made  their 
buyers  happy  and  they  have  cheated  in  other  ways. 
Perhaps  this  was  why  they  have  spoken  with  scorn 
of  their  sisters  in  the  same  profession,  who  always 
paid  the  price. 

If  I  asserted  that  I  kept  my  vows  of  purity  amid 
such  associations  probably  I  should  not  be  believed, 
so  I  will  only  venture  this  much  of  the  truth.  I 
found  much  pleasure  and  interest  in  the  (discovery 
that  there  is  only  one  kind  of  woman,  that  there  are 
no  classes  of  good  women  and  bad  women,  save  as 
all  human  beings  differ  in  value.  I  found  cultured 
women  and  vulgarians  in  "questionable  company" 
mixed  in  about  the  same  proportions,  as  I  have  found 
them  mingled  in  homes  of  unquestioned  social  stand 
ing.  Perhaps  I  should  make  this  distinction,  that 
often  in  the  homes  of  wealth  I  have  found  a  larger 
percentage  of  inexcusable  vulgarity. 

For  Halliwell's  guidance  through  this  part  of  my 
education  I  am  grateful.  He  was  getting  bored 
with  this  phase  of  life  and  my  fresh  interest  revived 
his  for  a  time  and  then  our  joint  interest  waned 
rapidly. 

"There's  one  comfort  in  our  wickedness,"  yawned 
Gene  one  evening,  after  we  had  pleaded  another 
engagement  over  the  telephone  and  had  sat  down 
before  the  fire  for  a  long  "pow-wow";  "we  shaVt 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  31 

have  to  go  through  this  stage  at  the  age  of  forty- 
five.  My  dad  has  a  flock  of  business  friends  who 
make  me  ill.  They  have  a  three  day  round  up  on 
business  about  once  a  month  in  New  York — and 
they  do  one  day  of  business  and  then  start  out  for 
two  days  of  seeing  the  town.  There  are  among 
them  some  bachelors  who  kept  their  noses  to  the 
grindstone  all  through  their  buck  days.  They're  try 
ing  to  make  up  now  for  what  they  lost.  But  the 
worst  of  the  lot  are  the  married  men  who  have 
always  lived  so  respectably  that  they  have  an 
immediate  interest  in  the  sight  of  any  chorus  girl 
out  loose.  They  pride  themselves  on  being  gay  old 
dogs  and  like  a  baldheaded,  gray-haired  pack  of 
fools  go  loping  down  Broadway  in  full  cry  when  a 
whiff  of  musk  comes  on  the  breeze.  There  ought 
to  be  a  dog-catcher  and  a  pound  provided  specially 
for  that  kind." 


At  the  end  of  my  first  year  Halliwell  finished  his 
graduate  work  and  departed  from  Cambridge,  re 
appearing  for  a  few  days  in  my  senior  year  and 
then  going  out  of  my  life  for  many  years  until  he 
returned  to  join  me  in  an  adventure  which  has  more 
public  interest  than  our  school-time  acquaintance. 
I  should  like  to  dwell  upon  him,  but  this  is  my  story 
and  to  include  his  would  require  another  volume — 
so  I  will  leave  him  only  half  revealed  as  he  steps  in 
and  out  of  my  troubled  life. 

But  it  should  not  be  thought  that  philandering 


32  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

with  Halliwell  filled  all  my  first  year  in  Cambridge. 
In  fact,  I  studied  very  earnestly  and  I  should  delight 
to  pause  and  sketch  one  by  one  those  high-minded 
gentlemen  of  the  law  faculty  who  vividly  and  enter 
tainingly  inspired  my  interest  in  the  scarlet  and 
golden  threads  of  vital  issues  that  ran  in  and  out 
through  the  dull  stuff  of  the  law,  making  a  shifting 
pattern  of  human  hopes  and  rights  and  passions  in 
which  I  found  continuous  fascination. 

Unworthy  indeed  would  I  have  been  of  the  in 
struction  which  I  received  had  I  not  found  in  it  my 
chief  interest.  My  teachers  had  not  merely  a  great 
story  to  transmit,  as  the  singers  of  ancient  days 
carried  the  epic  poems  down  from  generation  to 
generation.  They  had  more  to  do  than  to  inspire 
me  with  respect  for  the  principles  of  the  common 
law.  They  had  set  themselves  the  task  of  teaching 
me  to  reason  as  generations  of  law  makers  had 
reasoned  before  me,  so  that  when  I  went  out  among 
my  fellows  to  tell  them  of  the  law,  I  would  carry 
on  into  the  problems  of  my  generation  the  established 
wisdom  of  the  past  and  with  its  aid  build  a  super 
structure  for  the  new  day  that  would  rest  fairly  upon, 
and  would  be  a  fitting  addition  to  the  house  of  yes 
terday. 

Since  Harvard  days  I  have  found  much  cause  to 
doubt  the  worth  of  the  law  makers  of  to-day  and  to 
criticize  their  work  with  bitterness.  Indeed  my  fall 
from  a  great  height  came  through  what  men  called 
a  defiance  of  the  law — which  was  in  fact  only  the 
defiance  of  a  usurper  who  offended  against  a  greater 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  33 

law  than  that  which  he  invoked.  But  I  have  never 
swerved  from  my  early  admiration  for  those  scholars 
of  Cambridge  who  devoted  their  lives  with  such 
patience  and  fervor  to  impregnating  succeeding  gen 
erations  of  lawyers  with  the  principles,  and  inspiring 
them  with  the  ideals,  of  English  jurisprudence. 
Young  and  immature  though  I  was,  discursively 
curious  about  a  thousand  aspects  of  life,  they  won 
not  only  my  respect  and  interest  but  my  lasting  affec 
tion.  Langdell  and  Ames  and  Thayer  and  Gray — 
God  bless  them  all!  They  are  gone  along  the  path 
that  I  some  day  must  follow.  I  should  feel  assured 
of  the  justice  of  a  world  beyond  if  I  knew  that  there 
the  scales  were  weighted  by  those  "stainless,  gallant 
gentlemen." 


In  every  way  my  years  in  Cambridge  were  a  time 
of  growth.  My  mind,  my  imagination,  my  social 
information  developed.  Even  my  body  grew  in  size, 
in  variety  of  appetites,  in  capacity  for  sensation  and 
valuation.  I  had  for  the  first  time  an  intense  love 
of  life — and  with  this  came  a  desire  to  prosper  so 
as  to  be  able  to  experience  life  in  all  possible  phases. 
An  interest  in  public  affairs  was  awakened.  I  dis 
cussed  politics  with  my  father  in  letters  and  when 
home  during  vacations.  I  became  curious  concern 
ing  his  part  in  public  affairs  which  gave  him  such 
positive  and  cynical  opinions  about  persons  of 
political  notoriety  and  which  provided  me  with  rail 
road  passes  to  and  from  school  at  vacation  periods. 


34  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

Secretlveness  was  not  one  of  his  characteristics  so  my 
inquiries  brought  forth  a  vast  amount  of  entertain 
ing  and  disquieting  information. 

Doubts  had  arisen  in  my  mind  concerning  the  in 
fallibility  of  the  law  through  the  frank  and  vivid 
criticisms  of  unsound  law  with  which  students  and 
faculty  enlivened  the  lecture  hours.  To  these  doubts 
was  added  assurance  of  the  unreliable  character  of 
the  law  makers  and  law  enforcers  through  my 
father's  intimate  revelations  of  politics.  Clearly 
there  was  ample  opportunity  in  public  life  for  a  well- 
educated  young  man  of  virtuous  ideals  to  do  a  great 
work — and  perhaps  to  earn  a  great  reward.  (Youth 
is  always  sure  that  its  ideals  are  virtuous.)  Thus 
developed  the  last  phase  of  the  unreal  world  in  which 
I,  like  the  average  American  boy,  was  educated.  I 
created  for  myself  a  mythical  ideal  of  the  man  that 
I  should  be — a  nai've  creature  of  some  spiritual 
beauty — enveloped  in  a  Roman  toga — thundering 
truths  in  the  market  place  or  "the  applause  of  listen 
ing  senates  to  command." 

My  visions  of  those  days  were  not  'disturbed  by 
any  acquaintance  with  South  Water  Street  on  a  busy 
day,  nor  were  they  made  ridiculous  through  any 
apprehension  of  the  pleasant  manner  in  which  the 
Senators  of  the  State  of  Illinois  receive  the  mes 
sages  of  would-be  deliverers  who  have  only  words 
to  deliver. 

Yet,  I  repeat,  during  my  years  in  the  East  I  grew 
perceptibly  from  boyhood  toward  manhood.  I  lived 
still  in  a  sheltered  land,  a  world  of  myth,  but  I  had 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  35 

begun  to  sense  that  just  beyond  was  a  realm  of  bitter 
cruelties,  mean  drudgery  and  persistent  stupidities, 
where  the  power  I  thought  I  possessed  and  the  ideals 
I  hoped  to  cherish  would  meet  real  tests,  where  suc 
cess  and  failure  would  be  facts.  I  was  impatient  to 
deal  with  facts. 

[This  chapter  of  Merrill's  life  is  incomplete.  There  are 
some  disconnected  notes,  indicating  an  intention  to  write  up 
various  incidents.  A  moot  court  argument.  ...  A  Harvard- 
Yale  football  game.  Some  trips  to  New  York.  .  .  .  An 
evening  with  the  dean  of  the  law  school.  .  .  .  Long  tramps 
through  the  country  are  half-sketched.  But  these  records 
are  inadequate  for  reproduction.  There  is  a  letter  from 
Jeannette  Hull,  which  shows  that  she  was  teaching  classes 
in  English  literature  in  a  girl's  school  near  Boston  during 
Merrill's  last  year  in  Cambridge.  Evidently  they  spent 
much  of  their  free  time  together.  The  only  manuscript  of 
informative  length  which  seems  worth  reproducing  is  on 
yellowed  paper,  evidently  written  while  at  Harvard  and 
since  revised.  D.  R.] 


Rudolph  insisted  that  I  give  a  tea.  It  is  an  eastern 
custom  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  accommodate 
to  my  western  ideas.  But  I  wanted  him  to  meet 
Jeannette  and  also  I  had  received  a  letter  from 
Halliwell  saying  that  he  would  be  here  for  three 
days.  The  possibility  of  having  Jeannette  meet 
Gene,  and  hear  Rudolph  play,  converted  me  to  the 
tea  party  and  it  came  off  this  afternoon. 

Gene  is  calling  on  a  friendly  publisher  this  evening 
in  the  hope  of  interesting  him  in  some  manuscript, 


36  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

so  I  am  going  to  record  this  meeting  before  I  for 
get.  Maybe  Gene  will  marry  Jeannette  some  day 
and  I'll  give  them  this  manuscript  for  a  wedding 
present!  I  can't  imagine  two  people  more  suited  to 
make  each  other  unhappy — so  they  ought  to  fall  in 
love.  Confound  Gene  anyhow  I  I  begged  him  to 
restrain  that  wild  tongue  of  his.  I  told  him 
Jeannette  wouldn't  mind;  but  Rudolph  is  a  male  lily, 
a  musical  ascetic  who  plays  in  so  clean  a  spirit  that 
he  makes  even  the  indecencies  of  Strauss  sound  pure 
and  holy. 

But  Gene  was  in  one  of  his  most  affected  devilish- 
fellow  moods  and  started  chattering  in  exaggerated 
enthusiasm  about  Maudie  and  Nellie  and  Kitty  and 
Petty  Lamb ! 

"Remember  Petty  Lamb?"  he  shouted,  "dear  old 
Petty  Lamb,  of  the  Gay  Girls  Company,  fourth  from 
the  end,  with  a  hole  in  her  stocking.  Always  had  a 
hole  in  her  stocking — and  a  beauty  spot  on  her  face. 
You  asked  her  one  night  why  she  didn't  put  the 
beauty  spot  on  her  stocking  where  it  would  be  of 


some  use." 


"I  never  said  such  a  thing,"  I  protested,  "it  was 
one  of  your  alcoholic  witticisms." 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  cried  Gene,  "you  are  right 
as  usual.  Your  action  was  far  more  delicate  and 
typical.  You  gave  her  a  pair  of  silk  stockings.  Re 
member  what  a  time  we  had  picking  them  out?  The 
little  girl  at  Jordan's  asked  you  what  size  and  you 
didn't  know  and  you  asked  her  what  size  she  wore 
and  she  got  quite  peevish  and  called  the  floorwalker 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  37 

who  was  very  superior  and  refined  in  a  most  un- 
gentlemanly  manner." 

"That  must  have  been  about  the  time  Richard 
Mansfield  was  in  town,"  I  interjected,  determined  to 
switch  the  conversation  with  brute  force,  if  neces 
sary.  "What  a  corking  lecture  he  gave  at  Sanders 
Theatre.  We  sat  up  until  four  A.M.  afterward  argu 
ing  about  Hamlet." 

"Hamlet,"  repeated  the  irrepressible,  "that  was 
the  name  I've  been  trying  to  remember  for  a  month. 
Portia  Hamlet,  formerly  of  the  Kittie-Cat  Chorus, 
last  seen  behind  the  counter  at  the  Old  Oak  Dairy 
Lunch.  I  hadn't  thought  of  her  for  years,  the  pret 
tiest  little  vampire  we  ever  met  and  our  greatest 
failure.  You  failed  at  reform  and  I  failed  at  seduc 
tion." 

"Really,  Gene,"  I  began,  somewhat  wrathily 

In  a  moment  he  was  courtesy  incarnate. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Hull,"  he  said,  bow 
ing  most  contritely — "and  also  Mr.  Litny" — bowing 
with  the  faintest  flicker  of  irony  toward  the  indig 
nant  Rudolph.  "I  haven't  seen  this  young  reprobate 
for  nearly  two  years  and  he  was  always  such  a  moral 
sinner  that  I  delight  to  shock  him.  But  I  did  not 
intend  to  go  quite  so  far  before  others,  particularly 
before  you,  Miss  Hull." 

"You  haven't  injured  Rodney's  reputation  with 
me,"  answered  Jeannette  with  a  slight  but  effective 
emphasis  on  my  name. 

"I'm  so  relieved,"  he  murmured.  "Mr.  Litny,  will 
you  show  your  forgiveness  by  playing  that  nocturne 


38  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

that  Rod  has  raved  about  in  his  letters?  I'm  sure 
that  will  purify  even  the  stale  atmosphere  I  brought 
in  with  me,  out  of  the  room  with  the  bolted  door 
— our  naughty  past." 

So  Rudolph  played  and  even  Gene,  who  had  a  real 
love  of  music,  forgot  his  malice;  while  Jeannette  sat 
entranced.  For  Rudolph  was  the  rare  amateur  who 
had  mastered  his  piano.  The  mechanics  imposed 
no  limitations  on  his  expression  and  the  emotions  of 
Beethoven  and  Chopin  and  Bach  lived  again  in  my 
little  room  and  swayed  us  all,  sitting  there,  now 
tense,  now  relaxed,  each  dreaming  the  dream  in  his 
own  way,  but  knowing  that  the  others  shared  its 
beauty. 

Rudolph  played  again  and  again  at  our  insistence. 
Then  I  brought  in  the  sandwiches  and  cakes,  and 
Jeannette  made  the  tea  and  we  gossiped  on  this  and 
that  and  everything.  But  eventually  Gene  came 
around  to  his  pet  subject  again.  I  knew  he  would 
do  this,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  justify  him 
self  and  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  perfectly 
frank  and  had  no  hypocrisies.  This  time,  however, 
his  mode  of  discussion  was  better  chosen,  although 
once  started  on  the  theme  his  conversation  was  a  bit 
raw  for  the  average  palate. 

"There  is  nothing  more  real  and  vital  in  life,"  he 
announced,  "than  the  relations  of  men  and  women, 
particularly  young  people.  Yet  there  is  nothing  less 
talked  about  between  them,  except  as  a  delicious 
impropriety.  For  instance,  I've  been  eating  lunches 
in  New  York  at  a  small  beanery  where  there  is  a 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  39 

waitress  who  fascinates  me,  just  the  way  I  suppose 
a  snake  charms  a  bird — if  snakes  really  do  that.  I 
detest  the  girl ;  I  despise  her.  But  there  is  something 
about  that  girl's  mouth  that  arouses  in  me  a  seeth 
ing  desire  to  kiss  it.  I  wouldn't  kiss  her  for  a  hun 
dred  dollars — well  let's  be  reasonable — I  wouldn't 
kiss  her  for  five  dollars — that  is,  when  I  have  five 
dollars — I  mean  I  couldn't  put  my  arms  around  her. 
I  tell  you  I  dislike  everything  about  her  except  that 
mouth.  If  I  could  amputate  that  mouth  and  put 
it  on  a  nice  clean  girl  I'd  ask  it  to  marry  me 
to-morrow. 

"Now  that  seems  to  me  interesting.  I  woncler  if 
other  people  have  thoughts  like  that.  But  if  I  asked 
any  of  you  to  compare  experiences  with  me  no  one 
of  you  would  admit  ever  having  anything  but  the 
most  conventional  emotions — and  probably  you 
wouldn't  talk  about  them." 

He  looked  around  invitingly. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Rudolph,  with  unusual  as 
perity.  It  was  plain  that  he  disapproved  of  Halli- 
well.  The  "Harvard  reserve"  had  worked  deep 
into  his  Polish-German  nature. 

"It's  more  than  a  matter  of  good  taste,"  suggested 
Jeannette.  "If  the  most  intimate  thoughts  are 
spread  out  in  public  they  lose  much  of  their  value, 
their  delicacy.  It's  like  the  way  the  skin  tans  and 
toughens  in  the  sun  and  wind.  I'll  admit  I'm  curi 
ous  about  other  people's  ideas  and  experiences,  es 
pecially  in  so-called  sex  problems.  But  I'm  not 
curious  enough  to  pay  the  price  of  exposing  my  own. 


40  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

"However,"  she  concluded  with  a  little  malice, 
"don't  let  that  deter  you  from  giving  yourself  away 
if  it  is  a  free  giving." 

"Thanks,"  continued  Gene  unabashed,  "thanks  for 
the  permission.  You  seem  to  be  almost  broad- 
minded,  although  I  should  say  rather  stingy." 

"Have  you  see  Robinson  Smith  lately?"  I  asked 
abruptly;  hoping  to  stop  a  flood  of  embarrassing 
self-revelation. 

"Last  week,"  he  answered.  "You  know  he's 
married.  Has  a  sweet  little  wife,  a  trifle  smaller 
than  the  Statue  of  Liberty  and  twice  as  cute.  Has 
a  fine  baritone  voice;  the  wife,  I  mean.  I  guess 
Robbie  will  sing  tenor  all  his  life  now.  She  will 
prefer  to  carry  the  air;  and,  if  she  wants  to,  she  will. 
I  asked  them  why  on  earth  they  married." 

"You  asked  them  what?" 

"I  asked  them  why  they  married.  I  couldn't  see 
why  she  would  want  a  little  thing  like  Robbie  around 
the  house,  and  I  should  have  thought  he'd  never 
have  had  the  nerve  to  ask  her,  though,  of  course,  if 
she  wanted  him  she  may  have  just  told  him  so." 

"Did  you  explain  those  reasons  for  your  questions 
to  them?"  asked  Rudolph. 

"Certainly,"  said  Gene.  "But  they  didn't  give  me 
any  very  good  answers.  Robbie  said  something 
weakly  about  it  being  no  use  to  discuss  tastes,  and 
Mrs.  Robbie  said  that  remark  didn't  compliment  her 
much.  I  was  afraid  they  were  going  to  have  a  row. 
I  might  have  to  be  a  witness  in  a  divorce  case  if  she 
got  mad  and  hit  him,  so  I  changed  the  subject.  I 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  41 

talked  about  going  soon  and  what  a  long  trip  I  had 
to  make  to  get  home.  That's  the  only  time  during 
the  evening  I  made  a  hit.  They  discussed  my  going 
very  enthusiastically.  So  I  left." 

Jeannette  was  frowning  perplexedly. 

"Do  you  talk  like  that  to  be  amusing,  Mr.  Halli- 
well?"  she  asked,  "or  do  you  like  to  hurt  people's 
feelings?  I've  been  trying  to  understand  your  real 
motive;  because  despite  your  conversation  I  don't 
think  you're  a  fool." 

"You  probably  think  I'm  posing." 

"Yes — a  bit  more  than  most  of  us." 

"Now  really  I'm  not.  I  have  a  tremendous 
amount  of  curiosity  about  life  and  I  hate  to  waste 
time  over  unimportant  things.  Therefore,  when 
ever  I  talk  seriously  I  try  to  find  out  something  that 
I  want  to  know — or  to  tell  somebody  something  he 
may  want  to  know.  Most  people  talk  because  they 
like  to  narrate.  They  want  to  occupy  the  stage. 
They  keep  silent  and  listen  only  the  amount  they 
think  necessary  to  acquire  a  lien  on  another  person's 
time,  so  that  he  will  have  to  listen  when  their  time 
comes.  I  try  to  shape  conversations  so  that  I'll  be 
interested  and  not  bored  by  what  other  people  say. 

"For  example" — he  paused  a  moment,  looking  at 
me  mischievously.  I  braced  against  the  coming 
shock.  "I've  a  great  many  questions  about  you, 
Miss  Hull,  and  my  old  friend  Rod.  You've  known 
each  other  quite  well  for  some  years.  From  my 
knowledge  of  Rod  and  from  what  little  I've  seen  of 
you  I  can  guess  that  you  and  Rod  have  never  asked 


42  LEARNING  SOME  LAWS 

each  other  why  you  went  around  so  much  together. 
In  simple  words,  what  do  you  see  in  each  other? 
Now  if  you  ever  discussed  this  you  might  learn  a 
good  deal." 

He  waved  aside  my  protesting  hand  and  con 
tinued  : 

"Really  I  wish  you  would  discuss  it  because  if  you 
don't  talk  about  it  in  cold  blood,  I'll  tell  you  what 
will  happen.  Some  day  circumstances  will  be  pro 
pitious  and  Rod  will  begin  to  make  love  to  you 
without  knowing  whether  he  is  in  love  or  not.  But 
having  started  out  that  way  his  conscience  will  get 
to  work  and  he'll  convince  himself  that  he  is  in  love 
with  you  and  he  may  make  you  think  you're  in  love 
with  him.  Of  course,  if  you  people  really  are  in 
love  or  do  honestly  fall  in  love,  it  is  no  affair  of 
mine.  But  if  you  aren't  or  don't  fall  in  love  and  the 
event  I'm  afraid  of  comes  to  pass,  I'll  have  two  more 
good  friends  turned  into  one  bad  couple.  That's 
happened  to  me  four  times  in  the  last  year.  So  don't 
say  that  your  affections  are  none  of  my  business." 

I  was  too  amused  to  be  embarrassed  by  this  im 
pertinence,  especially  as  Jeannette  took  it  in  a  quiz 
zical  spirit. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  advice  was  good.  Jeannette 
and  I  had  a  good  talk  after  tea.  We  walked  all 
the  way  into  Boston.  On  Harvard  bridge  we  paused 
for  a  long  time  watching  the  great  curve  of  the  city, 
topped  with  the  gilded  dome  of  the  capitol,  gradually 
fade  in  the  twilight  until  it  lay  misty  and  unreal 
across  the  quiet  water.  We  decided  that  there 


LEARNING  SOME  LAWS  43 

should  not  be  any  love  making  for  some  time  at 
least;  but  that  we  were  very  fond  of  each  other  and 
that  we  would  wait  and  see  whether  time  would 
draw  us  still  closer  together. 

She  was  staying  that  night  with  a  friend  who  lived 
in  Newbury  Street  a  few  blocks  from  Massachusetts 
Avenue.  When  I  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
we  shook  hands  as  though  sealing  a  compact.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  held  her  hand  with  any 
feeling  of  intimate  interest  in  the  contact.  I  pressed 
it  quite  tenderly  and  the  small  fingers  that  gripped 
mine  sent  a  new  thrill  through  me — not  a  gust  of 
passion,  but  a  soft,  warm  affectionate  feeling — a 
strong  desire  to  do  something  for  her  that  she 
would  like  and  to  see  her  eyes  smile  at  me. 

I  walked  back  toward  Cambridge  thinking  many 
new  and  interesting  thoughts — mostly  about  Jean- 
nette.  I'm  going  to  stop  scribbling  now  and  think 
some  more. 


BOOK  II 
REALITY 


CHAPTER  V 

\ 

STARTING  TO  WORK 

"r  |  ^HIS  is  my  son  Rodney,"  was  the  introduc 
tion  with  which  my  father  customarily  de 
manded,  rather  than  requested,  my  admis 
sion  within  the  pale  of  his  business  associations. 

No  one  responded  more  heartily  to  the  demand 
than  Jack  Emmet,  the  "Big  Boy"  in  city  politics. 

"You're  a  bigger  man  than  your  dad,"  said  he, 
"but  you'll  have  to  go  some  to  be  a  better  one.  Liv 
ing  at  home?  Whose  precinct  is  that?  Apperson? 
He's  too  much  of  a  statesman  to  run  a  precinct. 
Why  not  work  the  boy  in?  We  can  use  all  the  bright 
young  fellows  who  don't  think  they  are  too  good 
for  the  game?" 

"I  want  to  get  into  the  real  game,"  was  my  an 
swer;  "I've  been  going  to  school  for  so  many  years 
that  I  think  it's  about  time  for  me  to  do  something." 

"Don't  worry  about  the  time  you've  been  to 
school,"  said  Emmet,  with  a  slightly  wistful  look 
in  his  narrow  gray  eyes.  "Just  so  long  as  you  don't 
get  swell-headed  it  won't  do  you  no  harm.  I  didn't 
have  much  teaching  myself,  but  my  boy  is  going  to 
Yale  next  year.  Glad  to  meet  you,  Rodney.  Follow 
your  dad's  advice.  He  knows  what's  what.  And  if 
you  want  a  boost  some  day,  just  call  on  me." 

47 


48  STARTING  TO  WORK 

He  lumbered  across  the  club  dining  room  to  an 
other  table — a  short,  heavy,  broad-shouldered  man 
with  thin  black  hair  brushed  back  from  a  weather- 
beaten  face  which  had  no  distinction  except  in  the 
sharp,  cruel  little  eyes  that  belied  the  easy  good 
nature  of  his  manner. 

"He  is  a  good  friend  of  mine,"  said  my  father, 
with  some  pride.  "It  would  be  a  good  idea  for  you 
to  take  hold  of  the  precinct  work.  Kenney,  the  ward 
leader,  is  one  of  my  clients.  You  could  work  up 
rapidly  in  the  organization.  A  little  politics  is  good 
for  a  young  lawyer.  I  suppose  you're  a  Democrat?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am.  I  thought  I  would  be 
independent  until  I  had  some  ideas.  However,  prob 
ably  you  know  best.  I  suppose  one  must  work  with 
some  organization.  Most  of  my  friends  are  Re 
publicans;  but  I'm  not  strong  for  the  protective 
tariff." 

"That  hasn't  much  to  do  with  city  politics,  any 
way,"  suggested  my  father  dryly.  "However,  you 
do  just  what  you  want  to  do." 

This  last  sentence  was  usually  father's  final  argu 
ment.  He  would  point  out  the  way  of  wisdom. 
Then  if  I  chose  to  be  a  fool,  that  was  my  privilege ; 
only  he  wanted  me  to  understand  clearly  that  he  had 
shown  me  what  a  fool  I  would  be  and  of  course  he 
did  not  care  to  have  his  son  make  a  fool  of  himself ! 
It  was  always  very  hard  for  me  to  stand  against  this 
particular  method  of  coercion.  In  my  apprentice 
days  in  the  law  office  I  made  no  effort  to  resist,  hav 
ing  decided  to  follow  advice  implicitly  until  I  had 


STARTING  TO  WORK  49 

acquired  at  least  convictions  instead  of  mere  doubts 
as  to  whether  my  father's  meat  would  nourish  or 
poison  me. 

Thus  it  happened  that  I  put  in  many  evenings  in 
petty  political  work,  while  my  days  were  employed 
with  the  mean  detail  which  is  unloaded  on  a  fledg 
ling  lawyer.  At  the  same  time  my  spare  hours  were 
absorbed  largely  in  trifling  social  affairs  with  rela 
tives  and  friends  of  the  family.  All  in  all,  my  first 
year  and  a  half  of  experience  in  being  a  grown  man 
and  earning  my  own  living  was  a  most  disheartening, 
irritating,  disillusioning  period.  My  whole  world 
seemed  petty,  uninspiring  and  unimportant.  The 
only  way  out  that  I  could  perceive  was  the  possibility 
of  making  enough  money  to  permit  me  to  get  out  of 
business,  to  get  out  of  politics,  to  get  out  of  the  city, 
to  live  someway,  somewhere,  somehow  dissociated 
from  all  the  realities  I  had  thought  would  be  so  in 
teresting  and  had  found  so  unutterably  dull.  These 
were  the  most  unhappy  days  which  I  can  now  rec 
ollect. 

With  the  desire  for  money  as  a  means  of  release 
came  also  the  distressing  knowledge  that  as  a  money- 
making  game  the  law  offered  very  poor  sport.  Some 
boys  I  had  known  in  high  school  who  had  gone  into 
business  were  already  far  along  the  road  to  wealth. 
On  the  other  hand,  my  own  father,  regarded  as  an 
exceptionally  successful  lawyer  of  twenty-five  years' 
experience,  earned  only  a  fair  income.  He  main 
tained  that  income  only  by  unremitting  labor  through 
long  hours,  with  the  fear  of  diminishing  business  al- 


50  STARTING  TO  WORK 

ways  goading  him  to  additional  work  to  acquire  new 
clients  as  the  older  ones  dropped  away. 

Somewhat  desperately  I  began  writing  whenever 
I  could  find  the  time — unconvincing  stories  and  plat 
itudinous  essays,  which  were  returned  promptly  by 
uninterested  editors.  I  exchanged  a  good  many 
letters  with  college  friends,  a  large  number  with  Jean- 
nette — full  of  fish  hooks,  poorly  baited,  with  which 
I  hoped  to  catch  some  of  the  appetizing  brain  food 
not  found  in  my  days  of  drudgery.  Life  was  so  dull 
that  I  found  occasional  interest  in  playing  poker, — 
a  dull  discomforting  game  for  anyone  who  had  so 
little  love  of  gambling.  I  even  fell  into  one  or  two 
sordid  adventures  with  women  until  scared  away  by 
the  threatened  development  of  one  escapade  into  a 
miserable  tragedy. 

Then  came  the  city  election  of  1901  and  I  found 
in  the  excitement  of  the  campaign  a  new  interest 
and  for  the  first  time  comprehended  the  meaning  and 
purpose  of  the  political  routine  in  which  I  had  been 
employed.  A  long  smouldering  public  anger  at  the 
street  railway  system  flamed  out  under  the  blowing 
of  a  popular  politician — the  ''Honorable  Richard 
Courtney."  The  "Big  Boy"  did  not  like  Courtney. 
The  Honorable  Dick  did  not  trot  well  in  harness. 
But  Emmet  never  openly  opposed  a  strong  public 
desire;  so  Courtney  received  the  Democratic  nomi 
nation  and  started  out  "to  clean  up  the  traction 
crowd."  It  was  generally  understood  in  the  organ 
ization  that  Emmet  was  luke-warm,  but  that  rumor 
only  encouraged  my  youthful  ambition  to  further 


STARTING  TO  WORK  51 

efforts.  If  a  new  day  were  about  to  dawn  I  intended 
to  be  present  at  the  sunrise.  , 

As  a  filler-in  I  spoke  at  Courtney  meetings 
throughout  the  town,  usually  boring  a  large  crowd 
that  was  waiting  for  the  headliners,  or  attempting 
vainly  to  hold  the  slim  audience  that  remained  after 
the  stars  had  departed.  I  felt  that  a  great  battle 
for  principle  was  in  progress  and  gave  unreserved 
support  to  our  ticket,  including  all  the  incompetent 
or  disreputable  lesser  candidates  who  hoped  to  slide 
into  power  behind  the  popular  leader.  Just  before 
election  pretty  definite  word  came  from  the  "Big 
Boy"  to  trade  off  the  mayor  for  the  small  fry  wher 
ever  possible.  The  excuse  for  this  treachery  was 
found  in  the  confident  predictions  of  the  influential 
newspapers  that  Courtney  would  be  beaten.  Hence 
the  organization  leaders  advised  us  to  save  all  we 
could  from  the  impending  wreck.  I  went  through 
all  the  way  for  Courtney,  with  bitterness  in  my  heart 
but  also  a  determination  that  my  first  big  contest 
should  find  me  loyal  even  in  defeat.  As  a  result 
my  own  precinct  and  others  in  my  group  were  the 
banner  precincts  of  my  ward.  Courtney  won  by  a 
narrow  margin.  Emmet  said  that  he  was  pleased 
with  my  good  work,  though  he  expressed  a  fear  that 
possibly  I  had  overworked  myself.  He  raised  his 
bushy  eyebrows  at  my  father  when  he  said  that. 

"It's  lucky  for  you  that  Courtney  won,"  said  my 
father  afterward.  "Because  Emmet  will  wish  to  ap 
pear  friendly  to  you,  although  he  doesn't  like  the 
way  you  disregarded  his  orders.  If  Courtney  had 


52  STARTING  TO  WORK 

lost,  the  'Big  Boy'  wouldn't  hesitate  to  show  you  his 
displeasure.  Now  don't  act  as  though  you  knew 
this,  but  don't  give  him  a  chance  to  discipline  you 
until  he  gets  over  being  mad." 

A  month  later  I  received  an  appointment  as  an 
assistant  city  attorney.  This  did  not  drop  upon  me 
from  the  skies.  I  had  decided  that  I  wanted  it; 
friends  had  suggested  it  to  Courtney  and  I  had  called 
on  the  "Big  Boy"  to  give  me  the  boost  he  had 
promised.  I  knew  that  he  wouldn't  really  help  me, 
but  I  could  not  appear  to  disregard  him.  I  was 
learning  to  be  practical  and  took  some  pride  in  land 
ing  this  position,  although  the  idea  of  seeking  it  had 
not  occurred  to  me  until  after  the  election,  which 
fact  shows  that  I  was  still  far  from  sophisticated. 
The  first  letter  I  wrote  on  the  official  stationery  bear 
ing  my  name  was  addressed  to  Jeannette.  In  my 
exuberance  I  was  somewhat  indiscreet.  It  was  not 
exactly  a  love  letter  but  it  indicated  pretty  clearly 
that  she  was  likely  to  get  a  love  letter  in  the  near 
future.  I  think  that  just  then  Jeannette  must  have 
been  somewhat  weary  with  teaching  pampered  young 
ladies  the  uses  of  the  English  language  and  she  re 
sponded  to  my  announcement  with  a  letter  so  affec 
tionate  that  it  startled  me  into  a  new  self-examina 
tion. 

Was  I  really  in  love  with  Jeannette?  Even  if  I 
were,  was  it  wise  for  me  to  think  of  marriage  when 
a  career  was  just  opening  out  before  me?  Would  it 
not  be  better  to  go  some  distance  toward  financial 
success  before  I  hampered  myself  with  family 


STARTING  TO  WORK  53 

responsibility?     My  next  letter  was  somewhat  more 
discreet. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  introspection  that  the 
public  and  IN  were  equally  startled  by  the  announce 
ment  that  the  City  Attorney  had  named  me  as  his 
assistant  in  charge  of  the  traction  case,  under  his 
personal  direction.  Such  an  honor  to  a  very  young 
lawyer  might  have  inflated  his  egotism.  However, 
the  opposition  papers  soon  informed  me  that  the 
announced  onslaught  on  the  octopus  was  evidently 
to  be  a  sham  battle,  wherein  Merrill  as  a  mere  tyro 
would  be  overwhelmed  by  the  eminent  lawyers  of  the 
street  railway  system.  The  City  Attorney  replied 
that  he  would  conduct  the  fight  personally  and  that 
he  had  appointed  me  because  of  the  well-known  sin 
cerity  of  my  opposition  to  the  public  utility  and  be 
cause  of  the  special  study  which  I  had  made  of  public 
service  questions.  Of  course,  I  was  more  willing 
than  the  general  public  to  swallow  this  plausible 
explanation. 

After  several  months  of  extremely  hard  work  on 
this  case  an  important  question  came  before  the 
state  court,  and  by  good  fortune  the  arguments  were 
made  before  a  judge  who,  though  notably  conserva 
tive,  was  an  able  and  conscientious  lawyer.  The 
traction  lawyers  were  trying  to  stop  the  enforcement 
of  an  ordinance  of  the  city  requiring  better  service. 
The  public  interest  was  intense.  This  was  the  first 
real  test  of  the  sincerity  of  Mayor  Courtney's  efforts 
in  behalf  of  the  people  who  had  elected  him. 

After  the  traction  lawyer  had  made  the  opening 


54  STARTING  TO  WORK 

argument  the  City  Attorney  presented  the  City's 
case  from  the  documents  which  I  had  prepared 
through  many  days  and  nights  of  drudgery,  grinding 
away  at  the  law  books.  For  two  days  I  waited 
patiently  for  him  to  make  the  key  point  in  our  argu 
ment.  There  was  an  obscure  provision  in  the  city 
charter  which  supported  our  position  perfectly.  It 
had  never  been  considered  by  our  Supreme  Court. 
But  I  had  finally  discovered  a  similar  provision  in 
the  charter  of  a  city  in  another  state  which  had  been 
construed  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States 
just  as  we  wished  our  law  construed.  The  reading 
of  this  provision  and  the  interpretation  of  its  lan 
guage  by  the  Supreme  Court  was  to  be  our  irresistible 
counter-attack.  I  sat  trembling  with  eagerness  for 
the  blow  to  be  delivered.  But  the  hours  went  by 
and  there  was  no  reference  to  Section  186.  The 
city  attorney,  Mr.  Calderwood,  sat  down.  His 
argument  was  ended.  The  attorneys  for  the  com 
pany  arose  for  the  final  argument.  I  was  too  excited 
to  think  of  the  proprieties. 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  cried,  "just  a  minute;  there's 
another  point."  I  seized  my  chief  by  the  arm  and 
tried  to  remind  him  of  the  forgotten  point.  In  my 
agitation  I  talked  too  loud. 

"Don't  you  remember  Section  186?"  I  said,  quite 
distinctly. 

A  newspaper  man  dozing  in  the  jury  box  had  come 
to  life  and  was  watching  us  intently.  He  was  from 
The  Daily  Times,  the  leading  anti-Courtney  paper. 

Calderwood  frowned  and  pulled  me  over  to  one 


STARTING  TO  WORK  55 

side.  He  whispered  that  he  had  been  studying  that 
point  very  carefully  and  had  finally  decided  that  the 
section  was  not  very  important;  also  he  had  found 
a  reference  to  a  certain  decision  in  Massachusetts 
concerning  a  similar  law  which  he  was  afraid  would 
be  used  to  make  the  point  a  boomerang  if  he  raised 
it.  I  was  much  abashed  and  slipped  back  to  my 
chair. 

But  the  judge  had  caught  my  words  and  had  turned 
to  that  part  of  the  city  charter. 

"Did  I  hear  you  mention  Section  186,  Mr.  Mer 
rill?"  he  inquired. 

Then  I  was  embarrassed.  I  half  nodded  to  the 
court,  but  did  not  rise.  Mr.  Calderwood  hesitated 
a  moment  and  then  made  a  quick  decision. 

"If  your  honor  please,"  he  said,  "there  is  a  pos 
sible  application  of  Section  186  to  the  present  ques 
tion  which  Mr.  Merrill  has  been  investigating.  I 
had  intended  to  ask  him  to  present  the  results  of  his 
special  study,  which  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity 
to  check  over  myself.  This  slipped  my  mind  at  the 
last  moment.  With  the  court's  permission  I  will  ask 
Mr.  Merrill  to  conclude  the  argument." 

For  the  next  five  minutes  I  was  too  flustered  to 
bring  credit  to  myself  or  to  my  proposition;  but 
then  I  got  over  my  stage  fright  and  managed  to 
drive  my  point  home  with  some  force.  When  the 
opposing  lawyer  came  forward  to  reply  the  judge 
delayed  him  with  a  gesture. 

"Please  devote  your  attention  to  Section  186," 
said  his  honor,  "because  it  seems  clear  to  me  that 


56  STARTING  TO  WORK 

if  Mr.  Merrill's  construction  of  that  section  is  cor 
rect,  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  city's  power  to  pass 
this  ordinance.  Therefore,  there  is  no  use  consider 
ing  the  other  questions  you  have  raised  until  this  one 
has  been  disposed  of." 

The  victory  of  the  city  followed  rapidly  upon  this 
announcement.  The  shrewd  attorneys  for  the  com 
pany  dodged  and  twisted  for  nearly  an  hour,  but  the 
judge  harried  them  relentlessly.  Finally,  they  asked 
for  a  postponement  of  the  decision  until  they  had 
time  to  prepare  a  special  brief  on  this  point.  But 
the  judge  was  impatient. 

"No,  no,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  have  asked  for 
an  injunction  and  all  parties  agreed  that  no  action 
should  be  taken  by  the  city  while  this  matter  was 
being  presented  to  the  court.  When  the  public  right 
appears  so  clear  I  shall  not  be  a  party  to  tying  the 
hands  of  the  public  authorities  any  longer.  The 
motion  for  an  injunction  will  be  denied.  Prepare 
the  order,  Mr.  Calderwood." 

That  evening  my  name  was  in  the  newspaper 
headlines  in  many  forms  of  embarrassing  publicity. 
One  of  the  worst  read:  "Merrill  Wins  Traction 
Case — Young  Assistant  Saves  City  Attorney  Calder 
wood  from  Defeat."  The  Daily  Times  of  the 
next  day  contained  a  long  editorial  asking  why  Cal 
derwood  had  failed  to  make  the  point  upon  which 
the  city  had  won,  and  calling  upon  the  Mayor  to 
remove  his  City  Attorney  or  else  to  confess  that  the 
traction  fight  was  a  fraud  which  had  been  exposed 
unwittingly  by  "a  naive  young  assistant  city  attorney 


STARTING  TO  WORK  57 

who  didn't  understand  that  he  was  not  expected  to 
win." 

For  several  days  I  was  very  unhappy  in  the  City 
Hall.  At  first  I  thought  I  should  be  discharged. 
Then  I  realized  that  Calderwood  would  not  dare 
to  discharge  me — when  I  was  credited  with  winning 
the  case.  Disgustedly  I  wrote  out  my  resignation. 
Then  I  saw  that  that  would  appear  as  a  deliberate 
affront  to  my  chief.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I 
talked  it  over  with  my  father.  "Just  sit  tight,"  he 
said,  "and  wait  till  the  storm  blows  over.  Above 
all  things  don't  talk  so  that  anyone  can  quote  you." 

"Do  you  think  Calderwood  actually  intended  to 
lose  the  case?"  I  asked,  "or  did  someone  just  scare 
him  off  the  point  at  the  last  minute?" 

"He  intended  to  win,"  replied  my  father,  grimly, 
"but  not  right  away.  You  see  the  .company  would 
win  in  the  lower  court  and  then  the  city  would  appeal. 
That  way  for  two  years  or  more  the  city  would  be 
blocked.  But  Calderwood  would  raise  your  point 
finally  in  the  Supreme  Court  and  win  on  it.  Great 
victory  for  the  people!  Don't  you  see?  Meanwhile 
the  company  would  have  got  by  the  present  trouble 
— and  maybe  there  would  be  a  new  city  council — 
more  friendly  than  the  present  one.  Both  Calder 
wood  and  the  Company  would  have  won  on  their 
program.  Now  nobody  has  won — except  the  people 
— and  most  of  them  don't  know  it — or  they  don't 


care." 


Father  was  somewhat  disillusioned.    He  had  been 
a  "reformer"  once  and  still  bore  the  scars.     I  had 


58  STARTING  TO  WORK 

my  scars  to  come;  and  when  I  imagined  them  I 
thought  of  them  as  "honorable  scars,"  with  anticipa 
tory  pride.  Now,  as  I  write,  I  wear  these  scars. 
They  came  according  to  schedule.  There  are  more 
than  I  expected.  They  are  somewhat  disfiguring.  I 
have  not  the  handsome  appearance  of  the  well-known 
citizen  of  flawless  conventionality.  If  I  had  to  live 
my  life  over  again  I  doubt  whether  the  thrills  of 
pride  which  I  have  known  would  seem  sufficient  pay 
ment  for  these  deep,  cruel,  slow-healing  wounds.  Yet 
I  hope  that  I  should  have  the  same  courage  to  make 
the  same  fights  again — the  courage  of  youth — the 
courage  of  illusion.  Without  the  constant  challenge 
of  youth — how  error  would  endure!  It  is  a  wise 
death  that  takes  us  away  when  we  are  too  disillu 
sioned  to  be  of  service  any  longer. 

Of  course  Mr.  Calderwood  issued  a  long  "ex 
planation"  which  convinced  no  one  but  his  friends. 
The  mayor  issued  a  statement  expressing  every  con 
fidence  in  Calderwood.  Then  an  improvement  pro 
ject  favored  by  all  the  large  business  houses  was 
launched  by  the  mayor  and  his  City  Attorney.  The 
newspapers  were  quietly  but  effectively  informed  that 
the  big  advertisers  favored  this  activity  of  the  city 
administration  and  it  would  be  well  to  stop  pounding 
the  City  Hall  for  a  time. 

Emmet  dropped  down  beside  me  one  day  when  I 
was  waiting  for  a  friend  in  the  living  room  of  the 
Democratic  club. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  congratulate  you,  my  boy," 
he  half  whispered. 


STARTING  TO  WORK  59 

"What's  that  on?  Winning  the  traction  case?" 
I  asked. 

"Good  Lord,  no,"  he  answered.  "That  was  a 
blunder.  But  you  kept  your  rnouth  shut  afterward. 
That  showed  some  brain.  Aren't  you  wise  to  your 
boss,  yet?  No?  Well,  here  is  a  tip,  my  boy.  If 
you  ever  say  I  told  you  I'll  say  you're  a  damn  liar. 
But  you  mustn't  be  so  innocent.  Don't  you  know 
that  Kohler  and  Stein  are  on  the  traction  Company 
pay-roll  at  $20,000  a  year?" 

"Kohler  and  Stein?"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"The  firm  was  Calderwood,  Kohler  and  Stein, 
before  Caldie  became  City  Attorney.  Why  do  you 
think  the  traction  people  hire  the  City  Attorney's 
partners?  I  think  he  calls  'em  his  former  partners. 
Why  does  the  Electric  Company,  the  Gas  Company, 
the  Telephone  Company,  the  big  stores,  the  big  con 
tractors,  the  taxi-cab  companies,  the  hotels — why  do 
they  all  suddenly  rush  to  pay  fat  fees  to  Kohler  and 
Stein?  Get  wise,  my  boy,  get  wise.  You're  a  nice 
young  fellow.  But  you've  got  a  lot  to  learn.  Why 
didn't  your  dad  tell  you?" 

"Perhaps  he  tried  to,"  I  suggested. 

I  had  a  sick  feeling  somewhere  inside  my  chest. 
Above  all  other  sensations  I  felt  conscious  of  having 
appeared  the  fool  in  the  worldly  eyes  of  my  associ 
ates.  Even  my  indignation  at  Calderwood  did  not 
drown  my  own  sense  of  shame.  This  was  what  my 
father  had  tried  to  tell  me  one  day  at  lunch  early 
in  my  public  career.  I  had  burst  into  a  heated  de 
fense  of  Calderwood,  who  had  not  only  appointed 


60  STARTING  TO  WORK 

me  but  then  had  given  me  a  chance  at  the  biggest 
job  in  the  office.  Whereupon  my  father  had  voiced 
a  few  unkind  truths  about  my  rawness  and  self- 
sufficiency  and  about  the  probable  future  of  a  boy 
"who  knew  so  much  more  in  his  first  year  than  any 
other  lawyer  had  been  able  to  learn  in  twenty-five 
years."  Lunch  had  ended  in  silence  and  gloom.  We 
had  avoided  each  other  for  some  days  thereafter. 

Emmet  rose. 

"Don't  worry,  my  boy.  You  got  by  that  tight 
place  pretty  well.  But  the  next  time  you  see  queer 
things  happening,  drop  in  on  me — and  maybe  I  can 
put  you  wise  to  what's  what." 

Three  months  later  I  remembered  the  "Big 
Boy's"  advice.  The  traction  question  came  to  the 
front  again  through  a  case  which  bondholders  of  the 
company  had  brought  in  the  United  States  Court. 
The  principal  work  of  preparing  this  fight  was  given 
to  Milberry,  a  fat,  stupid,  sycophant  who  had  had 
two  months'  experience  some  years  before  as  an  in 
vestigator  for  the  United  States  District  Attorney. 
Therefore,  he  had  been  designated  by  Calderwood 
as  "our  expert  in  charge  of  federal  court  litigation." 
I  was  sometimes  called  into  conferences — and  I 
guessed  the  reason  one  day  when  I  heard  Calder 
wood  assuring  a  newspaper  man  that,  "Merrill  has 
not  been  taken  away  from  traction  matters.  That 
report  is  not  true.  Merrill  will  be  in  the  federal 
case."  Clearly  Calderwood  did  not  dare  to  drop 
me.  He  needed  me  for  background.  But  he  did 
not  intend  that  I  should  have  a  speaking  part. 


STARTING  TO    WORK  61 

So  I  investigated  the  program  which  was  being 
worked  out  and  soon  convinced  myself  that  the  new 
case  was  simply  a  way  devised  to  relieve  the  street 
railway  company  of  the  burden  of  the  ordinance 
which  I  had  persuaded  the  State  court  to  uphold,  and 
which  Calderwood  was  rigorously  enforcing — in  the 
newspapers.  Then  came  the  question:  Should  I 
stand  by  and  say  nothing  or  should  I  try  to  stop 
the  betrayal?  I  thought  of  the  "Big  Boy's"  offer  of 
advice.  But  I  knew  what  that  advice  would  be.  I 
had  learned  a  good  deal  about  the  "Big  Boy."  Un 
less  he  had  some  cunning  plan  for  his  own  benefit 
and  wanted  to  use  me  as  a  club,  he  would  tell  me 
to  keep  quiet.  Then  he  would  slip  around  to  the 
traction  crowd  and  tell  them  that  he  had  stopped  me 
from  making  trouble. 

Nor  did  I  care  for  my  father's  cynical  wisdom. 
I  felt  that  it  was  time  for  a  big  decision.  Was  I 
going  to  "play  the  game"  as  the  successful  politicians 
played  it,  never  allowing  public  interest  to  interfere 
with  private  advantage;  or  was  I  going  to  refuse  to 
play  that  game  unless  I  could  square  it  with  my  idea 
of  what  public  service  should  be?  If  I  refused  to 
play  that  game,  was  there  any  other  game  I  could 
play  more  decently — and  achieve  any  personal  suc 
cess?  I  was  far  from  sure  that  my  ideals  were  at 
all  practical.  And  I  did  want  to  be  practical.  To 
be  sneered  at  as  an  "impractical  theorist"  hurt  me 
more  at  that  time  than  any  other  condemnation. 

In  the  midst  of  my  perplexity  there  came  a  piece 
of  luck.  Jeannette  wrote  me  that  she  was  coming 


62  STARTING  TO  WORK 

west  to  spend  a  week's  holiday  with  an  old  school 
mate.  I  telegraphed  her  promptly  to  save  at  least 
three  evenings  for  me.  She  wired  back:  "Yours  as 
always."  Again  I  felt  a  bit  disconcerted  by  the 
readiness  of  her  response,  yet  quite  pleased.  It 
would  be  so  good  to  see  her  again  and  tell  her  about 
my  great  problem — a  real  problem  of  the  real  world. 


We  were  sitting  at  a  little  table  in  a  popular  res 
taurant.  The  pink  glow  of  a  small  lamp  harmonized 
with  my  spirit.  I  had  forgotten  how  lovely  Jean- 
nette  was.  Thinking  of  her  for  so  long  as  a 
schoolteacher  and  an  old  friend,  the  memory  of  her 
physical  attractions  had  been  clouded  over.  I  had 
imagined  that  her  only  appeal  to  me  was  as  an  in 
teresting  companion — one  who  might  be  a  pleasing 
and  helpful  wife  but  who  would  not  inspire  an  unrea 
soning  passion  that  would  lead  me  rashly  into  inti 
macy.  From  the  standpoint  of  the  male  hunter  in 
contest  with  the  female  huntress  I  had  felt  safe. 

But  in  her  immediate  presence  I  suddenly  became 
conscious  of  a  desire  and  a  fear — a  desire  to  capture 
her,  anxiously  mixed  with  a  fear  that  she  might  cap 
ture  me!  Ever  since  I  had  greeted  her  at  the  home 
of  her  hostess  I  had  felt  awkward,  eager  and  con 
strained.  She,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  completely 
at  ease  and  altogether  charming. 

"Tell  me  how  you  enjoy  the  affairs  of  state,"  she 
suggested. 

"I'm  .thinking  of  resigning,"  I  answered,  and  then 


STARTING  TO  WORK  63 

told  her  about  Calderwood  and  the  latest  move  of 
the  traction  company,  and  my  perplexity.  She  lis 
tened  with  obvious  interest.  I  did  not  disguise  the 
heroism  of  the  action  I  contemplated.  I  think  I  may 
have  overemphasized  it.  I  expected  that  she  would 
advise  my  martyrdom.  Then  I  was  prepared  to 
point  out  its  hard  consequences  from  the  careful 
viewpoint  of  a  practical  man  of  affairs. 

But  she  promptly  presented  the  practical  argu 
ments  against  my  sacrifice  of  official  position  and  its 
ample  compensation.  As  a  result  I  was  forced  to 
support  the  more  romantic  program  with  an  enthu 
siasm  which  I  had  not  possessed  at  the  outset  of  the 
discussion. 

"I  have  learned,"  she  said,  a  little  sadly,  "that 
we  don't  live  in  a  world  of  good  and  bad  people  and 
it  is  hard  to  classify  most  acts  as  good  or  bad.  You 
may  do  a  wholly  good  act — yet  perhaps  destroy  your 
possibility  of  doing  even  better  acts.  All  the  people 
you  respect  will  not  approve  of  you  whatever  you 
do.  I  think  you  should  apply  your  force  wherever 
you  can  be  most  effective." 

"But  if  I  always  take  orders,  regardless  of  what 
I  think  right,  would  you  respect  me?" 

"It's  a  matter  of  degree,  I  guess,"  she  answered 
with  that  little  weary  note  sounding  in  her  voice. 
"Of  course  you  must  not  do  anything  really  wrong. 
But  is  silence — accepting  the  directions  of  your  chief 
— is  that  wrong?" 

"I  think  it  is." 

Her  opposition  had  hastened  my  decision.    I  have 


64  STARTING  TO  WORK 

since  suspected  that  she  knew  it  would.  Like  most 
older  men  I  think  I  know  more  about  women  now 
than  I  did  years  ago.  But  I  have  a  guilty  suspicion 
also  that  they  know  much  more  about  me.  Youth 
is  a  bit  mysterious  but  the  man  of  settled  habits  is 
as  obvious  as  he  is  dull.  Jeannette  suspected  my 
desire  to  declare  myself — to  challenge  my  elders  and 
to  compel  them  to  recognize  me  as  an  independent 
force. 

"I  have  decided  to  resign,"  I  announced,  firmly, 
although  a  delicious  touch  of  fear  stirred  me  as  I 
spoke.  She  shifted  to  my  mood  at  once. 

"Then  if  you  are  going  to  fight,"  she  said,  "please 
fight  hard.  I  hate  to  see  men  just  resign  as  though 
they  had  given  up  the  struggle." 

"I'm  going  to  leave  like  a  thirteen-inch  shell,"  I 
answered,  "with  a  big  back-kick  to  let  them  know 
that  I  am  on  my  way." 

For  a  while  we  talked  about  my  futur^,  romancing 
pleasantly.  Gradually  it  seemed  to  become  our 
future  which  I  found  myself  discussing.  Jeannette's 
eyes  encouraged  me  with  amused  and  sympathetic 
interest.  Her  mouth  was  very  sweet  and  tender.  I 
became  solicitous  about  her  present  days,  full  of 
small  and  thankless  tasks.  I  began  to  plan  secretly 
how  I  might  bring  about  a  change.  Then  came  a 
cooling  thought.  Did  I  want  to  help  her,  above  all 
other  things?  Was  that  my  life  ambition?  The 
ardent  interest  faded  in  my  voice.  Jeannette's  color 
lost  its  brightness.  There  were  tired  lines  under  her 
eyes.  She  looked  discontented,  even  a  trifle  fretful. 


STARTING  TO  WORK  65 

Once  more  our  hands  had  approached,  the  fingers 
had  touched,  but  somehow  they  did  not  clasp.  We 
were  very  fond  of  each  other.  But  we  were  not 
lovers. 


My  resignation  was  a  forty-eight  hour  sensation. 
The  opposition  papers  made  the  most  of  it.  But 
Mayor  Courtney  stood  by  his  appointee  and  referred 
to  my  action  as  "the  outburst  of  a  young  lawyer 
deceived  by  public  applause  into  believing  that  his 
judgment  is  superior  to  that  of  the  eminent  and  ex 
perienced  head  of  the  city  law  department." 

The  head  of  the  local  bar  association  gave  out 
an  interview  affirming  the  complete  confidence  of  his 
brother  lawyers  in  the  integrity  and  ability  of  Mr. 
Calderwood.  I  sent  to  the  newspapers  a  vicious  and 
sarcastic  reply  to  this  interview,  pointing  out  that 
the  president  of  the  bar  association  had  been  repre 
senting  local  public  utilities  for  fifteen  years  and 
naturally  he  and  his  clients  approved  of  Mr.  Calder 
wood.  But,  I  asked,  did  not  this  testimonial  help 
to  prove  my  case?  The  only  publicity  grven  to  this 
statement  of  mine  was  the  following  sentence  which 
appeared  in  three  newspapers — "Rodney  Merrill, 
former  assistant  city  attorney,  issued  a  long  state 
ment  yesterday  attacking  officials  of  the  bar  associa 
tion  who  have  supported  City  Attorney  Calderwood 
in  his  recent  controversy  with  his  obstreperous 
assistant." 

"Better  quit  it,"  said  my  father,  whose  parental 


66  STARTING  TO  WORK 

feeling  had  brought  him  unexpectedly  to  my  support. 
"Now  that  that  crooked  bunch  has  got  over  its  sur 
prise  they'll  block  you  at  every  turn." 

He  was  right.  They  did.  Inside  a  few  weeks  I 
observed  with  some  humiliation  that  a  considerable 
public  opinion  had  been  cunningly  created  wherein 
I  was  catalogued  as  a  somewhat  radical,  quite  un 
practical  young  man  whose  egotism  and  desire  for 
self-advertisement  had  carried  him  into  active  dis 
loyalty  to  his  political  benefactor. 

It  is  hard  to  convince  the  exploited  voters  that 
anyone  on  a  public  payroll  really  desires  to  render 
public  service.  But  sad-eyed  plodders  who  would 
welcome  catastrophe  and  even  contemplate  crime  "to 
get  their  names  in  the  paper,"  will  readily  assume 
that  a  public  official  will  risk  even  his  beloved  job 
to  be  a  headliner  for  an  hour.  "He  likes  to  adver 
tise,"  brings  the  wisest  nods  from  those  who  yearn 
most  hopelessly  for  one  moment  in  the  spotlight. 

After  hearing  a  good  deal  of  comment  of  this  sort 
concerning  my  day  of  notoriety  I  was  eager  to  retire 
into  the  peaceful  obscurity  of  private  practice.  I 
ceased  efforts  to  justify  my  conduct  or  to  save  the 
public  from  its  officially-chosen  friends. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PLODDING  AND  DREAMING 

IT  is  nearly  six  months  since  I  left  the  City  Hall 
and   rejoined  my  father  in  the   old  offices   of 
Merrill  and  Merrill.     Business  has  been  brisk 
and  I  have  made  more  money  than  if  I  had  retained 
my  public  office.     I  have  not  been  unhappy  but  I 
must  admit  that  a  lifetime  of  such  months  would  be 
a   dreary  prospect.     Have  I  done  anything  worth 
while?     I  doubt  it.     But  with  my  doubt  comes  a 
much  harder  question:   What  can  I  do  that  is  worth 
while? 

Most  of  my  time  has  been  spent  in  closing  up  the 
Girling  estate.  Mrs.  Girling  is  pleased  with  every 
thing  except  the  inheritance  tax  and  our  bill.  She 
has  finally  admitted  that  I  couldn't  prevent  the  tax 
— after  a  long  suspicious  period  of  sly  investigation 
to  find  out  whether  some  smarter  attorney  could  not 
have  saved  her  from  this  loss.  But  she  is  still  fixed 
in  her  opinion  that  we  are  little  better  than  highway 
robbers  in  our  demand  for  fees.  Theoretically  she 
may  be  right.  But  practically  we  asked  for  less 
than  our  just  dues,  according  to  prevailing  standards. 
Mrs.  Girling's  money  comes  from  her  dead  hus 
band's  steel  mill.  He  could  buy  the  work  of  a  strong 
man  for  one  year — twelve  hours  a  day  of  heavy  life- 

67 


68          PLODDING  AND  DREAMING 

destroying  labor — for  less  than  a  thousand  dollars. 
So  when  I  charge  five  thousand  dollars  for  part  of 
a  few  months  of  comfortable  effort  I  don't  wonder 
that  Mrs.  Girling  thinks  I  am  a  polite  thief.  I 
gently  pointed  out,  with  casual  immodesty,  that  she 
was  employing  brains,  the  fees  for  which  are  higher 
than  the  wages  of  brawn.  I  cited  as  evidence  her 
husband's  profits.  She  looked  at  me  with  the  pity 
ing  contempt  of  a  well-done  old  woman  for  the  con 
ceit  of  a  raw  young  man  and  said: 

"I  see  more  gall  than  brains  in  that  bill.  Do  you 
think  I'd  ever  recommend  a  lawyer  who  made  such 
charges,  to  any  friend  of  mine?" 

"We  saved  you  Ten  Thousand  in  the  Simpson 
deal,"  I  suggested. 

"You  mean  you  didn't  lose  me  more  than  Five 
Thousand,"  she  countered. 

In  the  end  she  agreed  to  pay  in  installments  and 
went  forth  to  advertise  us  as  "terrible  chargers — 
but  really  very  clever  men." 

Of  course  we  could  hardly  ask  for  a  better  recom 
mendation  to  a  "high-grade  clientele"  but  somehow 
the  whole  business  sickened  me. 

Old  man  Girling  was  a  robber  but  he  did  make 
steel.  He  was  a  slave  driver  but  he  made  his  slaves 
produce  useful  things — bridges,  sky-scrapers,  rail 
roads, — machinery  of  modern  life.  We  lawyers — 
how  little  we  build — how  much  we  destroy;  and  al 
ways  we  are  charging  "fees  for  services."  Whom 
or  what  do  we  serve?  I  wish  I  felt  sure  that  I  am 
serving  any  good  purpose, — a  little  dream  at  the  end 


PLODDING  AND  DREAMING          69 

of  the  day's  work,  of  something  done  or  to  be  done 
tomorrow — that  may  seem  worth  while — to  God. 

Yes,  I'm  worrying  about  God  again — not  about 
The  Forbidder — but  about  The  Builder.  Am  I 
building  anything?  If  not  I  have  a  feeling  that  I 
am  wrong.  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Jeannette  about 
this.  I'm  not  afraid  of  punishment — in  the  old 
Hell  sense — but  I  don't  want  to  waste  my  life.  I 
think  there  must  be  some  reason  for  my  being. 
There  is  nothing  in  this  legal  business  which  seems 
to  me  worth  the  cost  to  mother  of  the  pain  and 
sacrifice  she  underwent  to  produce  a  man.  My  pay 
comes  out  of  the  aching  arms  and  legs,  the  tired 
backs,  of  such  as  Girling's  "hunkies."  Do  I  add 
anything  to  life  equal  to  that  cost? 


Jeannette  writes  me 

"You  are  becoming  too  introspective  again,  Rodney.  It  is 
unhealthy  to  spend  too  much  time  asking,  why.  We  will 
never  answer  the  question.  I  don't  know  why  1  should 
teach  my  girls  .the  things  I've  learned.  But  there  is  a  terrible 
must  in  living.  We  must  carry  on.  We  breed  out  kind 
and  teach  the  young  the  half-truths  we  were  taught  and  so 

the  world  goes  on And  why?  We  don't  know.  We 

only  know  we  must.  The  law  of  our  being  is  motion. 
Fortunately  most  of  us  must  earn  food  and  clothes  and 
shelter — and  we  cannot  spend  much  time  in  thinking. 

"If  I  were  not  a  spinster,  presumably  engaged  in  husband 
hunting,  I  should  tell  you  that  you  need  more  responsibility. 
You  are  a  little  too  free  from  burdens — for  the  moment  too 
much  your  own  master.  If  you  had  a  wife — and  children 


70          PLODDING  AND  DREAMING 

— you  would  accept  your  job  in  life  as  a  fact  and  not  find 
much  time  to  discuss  its  theory.  However,  being  a  bachelor 
maid,  I  shall  refrain  modestly  from  further  discussion  of 
the  marital  road  out  of  your  perplexities." 


Dear  old  Jeannette!  Of  course  she  isn't  old — she 
is  a  wise  young  woman.  I  love  to  get  her  letters. 
I  wish  I  could  talk  with  her  quite  often — not  every 
morning  at  breakfast,  but  two  or  three  evenings 
during  the  week.  At  times  I  want  to  go  and  put 
my  arms  around  her  and  call  her  an  "old  dear"  and 
hear  her  say  "you  funny  boy."  But  I  don't  yearn 
to  do  this.  I  don't  feel  that  life  is  incomplete  with 
out  her.  I  don't  want  to  wrap  my  life  in  hers,  or 
hers  in  mine.  I  only  want  her  for  part  of  my  life 
and  that  relationship  is  impossible. 

A  few  nights  ago  I  told  Mary  about  Jeannette. 
Mary  is  somewhat  critical.  She  admires  Jeannette's 
independence  and  her  intelligence  but  she  thinks  a 
woman's  natural  career  is  in  home-making.  Mary 
has  been  brought  up  to  be  a  home-maker. 

It  seems  strange  that  I  have  not  written  anything 
before  about  Mary,  because  I  have  known  her  quite 
intimately  for  a  year  or  more.  Her  father,  Christo 
pher  Belknap,  is  one  of  our  best  clients,  not  so 
wealthy  that  my  attentions  to  Mary  should  be  re 
garded  as  fortune  hunting,  but  sufficiently  well-off  so 
that  my  father's  worldly  judgment  has  approved  my 
apparent  interest  in  Belknap's  only  daughter. 

Mary  is  a  very  attractive  young  woman  of  medium 
height  and  well  rounded  figure.  She  wears  all  clothes 


PLODDING  AND  DREAMING          71 

well,  but  looks  her  best  in  evening  gowns.  The  first 
time  I  met  her — at  a  dance — I  thought  she  was  the 
most  adorable  girl  I  had  ever  looked  upon — with 
her  shimmering  reddish  brown  hair,  her  exceptionally 
deep  blue  eyes  and,  most  of  all,  her  expression  of 
happiness — a  radiant  joy  of  living  that  quickened 
the  spirits  of  all  about  her.  For  that  evening  I  was 
quite  bowled  over.  Indeed  I  was  completely  en 
chanted  several  weeks  during  which  I  persistently 
labored  to  establish  myself  in  the  position  of  most 
favored  suitor  in  a  considerable  group  of  young  men 
all  bent  on  that  accomplishment. 

With  success,  however,  the  thrill  of  the  achieve 
ment  suddenly  faded.  Somehow  the  Mary  whom  I 
held  in  my  arms  for  our  first  parting  kiss  was  not 
just  the  Mary  of  my  dreams.  There  was  a  some 
what  unexpected  flavor  of  passion  in  that  caress,  that 
was  not  distasteful,  but  also  there  was,  a  lack  of  some 
thing  that  I  had  anticipated.  Perhaps  it  was  a  cer 
tain  spiritual — I  almost  said  intellectual — elation, 
that  I  had  sought  and  had  not  found.  In  all  honesty 
I'm  such  a  fool  in  my  hopes  of  what  a  woman  can 
mean  to  a  man,  or  a  man  to  a  woman,  that  I  suppose 
I  never  shall  be  satisfied.  I'm  sure  at  any  rate  that 
no  woman  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  me. 

I  walked  home  from  Mary's  house  feeling  like  a 
cad.  I  really  meant  all  the  things  I  had  said,  and 
felt  all  the  feelings  I  had  described.  (How  a  man 
loves  to  tell  a  woman  just  how  he  feels !  Is  she  as 
interested  as  she  seems — or  isn't  she  much  more 
interested  in  how  she  feels?)  Yet  under  all  my 


72          PLODDING  AND  DREAMING 

glowing  words  a  queer  cool  little  thought  was  run 
ning  in  my  mind — about  Jeannette.  I  felt  sure  that 
if  it  had  been  Jeannette  that  I  had  held  so  close  I 
should  have  been  much  less  incoherent — much  less 
disturbed — physically  far  more  calm — and  yet  it 
seemed  to  me  that  my  brain  would  have  been  racing 
at  higher  speed,  that  my  mental  exaltation  would 
have  carried  me  far  above  the  clouds  wherein  I 
floated  with  Mary. 

In  all  these  years  I  have  never  made  love  to 
Jeannette,  except  at  arm's  length.  Sometimes  my 
letters  have  gone  rather  far.  I've  never  had  any 
maddening  desire  to  snatch  her  away  from  all  other 
men  and  lock  her  in  my  arms  as  the  joy  of  joys, 
worth  any  cost.  Yet  she  is  fair  to  look  upon  and 
easily  stirs  men  pulses.  I've  always  felt  as  though 
it  would  be  very  sweet  to  know  that  she  really  cared 
for  me  beyond  all  others — and  yet — here's  Mary, 
whom  I  can  consider  quite  calmly  in  absence,  far 
more  calmly  than  I  can  appraise  Jeannette — but 
when  I  see  Mary  I  always  want  to  run  away  with 
her,  away  from  all  the  others,  to  some  favoring 
obscurity  where  I  can  crush  her  yielding  body  against 
mine  and  feel  her  soft  cool  arms  around  my  neck. 
I  want  to  make  love  to  her.  I  want  her  to  make 
love  to  me.  She  answers  all  my  questions  as  to  why 
I  want  to  be  in  love.  With  her  I  know  why. 

Yet  .  .  .  always  I  find  myself  asking,  would  love 
with  Jeannette  be  nearer  to  pure  joy — perhaps  a 
higher,  thinner  note,  not  so  rich  and  full — but  with 
a  thrill  almost  of  pain  in  its  fine  intensity? 


PLODDING  AND  DREAMING          73 

Mary  and  I  are  tacitly,  not  formally,  engaged. 
She  is  not  a  coquette  and  I'm  no  philanderer.  There 
cannot  be  another  for  either  of  us  while  we  talk 
and  act  as  we  do  in  regard  to  each  other.  But  I 
have  a  strong  feeling  that  I  have  no  business  marry 
ing  Mary,  at  least  not  before  I  have  made  love  to 
Jeannette  and  know  more  about  her,  and  myself, 
than  I  know  at  present.  How  can  I  do  that  now? 
Yes,  I  am  a  fool.  I  should  have  made  love  to 
Jeannette  long  ago,  and  then  I  should  know.  But 
should  I  ?  Probably  I  should  have  insisted  on  marry 
ing  Jeannette  and  if  she  would  have  had  me  we 
would  be  married  now.  Then  if  I  had  met  Mary, 
or  some  other  Mary,  to  heat  my  blood  into  this  mad 
ness,  what  would  have  happened? 

One  young  delusion  has  left  me.  It  is  not  the 
"pure  young  man"  who  is  the  ideal  mate — I  mean 
the  ultra  pure,  who  has  never  known  the  giddy  spell 
of  a  common  passion.  May  a  kindly  Fate  save  all 
women,  and  all  men,  from  marrying  the  first,  or  the 
second,  or  the  third  love.  Out  of  many  loves  may 
come  a  lover.  I  am  just  beginning  to  realize  that  I 
have  loved,  not  too  many,  but  far  too  few.  But  I 
can't  explain  this  to  Mary.  Mary  has  been  adored 
by  a  host — but  she,  herself?  Perhaps  she  is  not 
wholly  frank — she  does  not  kiss  like  an  amateur. 
She  sometimes  speaks  of  that  Captain  who  hung 
around  her  last  winter — the  man  had  a  rotten  repu 
tation — I'm  surprised  that  father  Belknap  let  him 
come  to  the  house.  Sometimes  her  eyes  are  a  bit 
dreamy,  almost  wistful  it  seems  to  my  jealous  gaze, 


74          PLODDING  AND  DREAMING 

when  she  speaks  of  him.  She  says  he  was  misunder 
stood,  he  had  a  very  sweet  side  to  him.  I  hate  his 
suave  manners!  When  I  meet  him  in  the  club  he 
always  wants  to  be  remembered  to  Miss  Belknap. 

Really  I  must  see  Jeannette — although,  of  course, 
it's  too  late.  I  couldn't  make  love  to  her  now  even 
if  she  would  let  me.  She  has  heard  about  Mary.  I 
wrote  her  that  I  might  be  coming  east  soon.  She 
answered  by  saying  she  would  be  glad  to  see  me,  but 
perhaps  I  was  planning  a  honeymoon  and,  naturally, 
even  old  friends  wouldn't  expect  to  be  favored  with 
a  call. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MOONLIGHT 

IT  won't  do  any  good  to  call  myself  names.  Any 
how  I  didn't  act  deliberately.  Pettigrew  tele 
graphed  that  I  must  meet  him  in  Boston  or  the 
new  company  would  be  captured  by  the  enemy;  so 
I  had  to  go.  Then  I  was  forced  to  wait  Saturday 
and  Sunday  with  nothing  to  do  while  Pettigrew  went 
back  to  Portland  to  talk  to  our  big  stockholders.  I 
telephoned  Jeannette  and  she  said  she  could  spend 
the  week-end  with  an  old  friend  in  Cambridge.  I 
took  Pettigrew's  car,  which  he  had  entrusted  to  me 
in  ignorance  of  my  incompetence  as  a  driver,  and 
Jeannette  and  I  spent  two  glorious,  days  driving  all 
over  that  dear  familiar  countryside  around  Boston. 
Any  man  or  woman  with  a  dash  of  romance  in  the 
blood  would  have  been  affected  by  the  situation. 

It  seemed  that  time  had  turned  backward.  I  was 
once  again  in  Law  School  and  Jeannette  had  just 
come  east  to  begin  teaching.  We  were  again  an 
avid  boy  and  a  dancing  girl  exploring  the  roads  to 
happiness  that  wound  in  and  out  through  the  Massa 
chusetts  hills.  It  was  late  in  the  fall  and  in  the 
Saturday  afternoon  dusk  we  climbed  the  well-known 
road  to  Bald  Pate,  speculating  on  whether  the  Inn 
had  closed  for  the  season.  A  single  light  in  the 

75 


76  MOONLIGHT 

rambling  old  building  cheered  us  as  we  topped  the 
ascent. 

"Just  closing  up  for  the  year,"  said  the  stout  old 
lady  we  met  at  the  door.  "But  I  guess  John  and  I 
can  get  you  a  bit  of  supper." 

The  fact  is,  that  in  half  an  hour  they  served  us  a 
meal  of  surprising  quality.  In  the  dimly  lighted  liv 
ing  room  in  front  of  a  great  log  fire  they  set  a  little 
table  and  on  the  shining  linen  appeared,  in  delft  blue 
china,  cold  chicken,  fried  potatoes,  a  mysterious, 
delicious  salad,  hot  biscuits  and  jelly,  and  coffee  with 
thick  yellow  cream.  At  the  last  came  a  mince  pie 
of  the  kind  that  mother  would  have  yearned  to  make. 
When  we  had  signified  the  impossibility  of  eating 
any  more,  despite  urgent  offers  of  more  coffee  or 
biscuits  or  pie,  our  cordial  hosts  cleared  away  the 
table,  told  us  to  make  ourselves  comfortable  and 
stay  as  long  as  we  liked — and  retired  to  the  distant 
kitchen. 

I  drew  up  a  little  divan  in  front  of  the  fire,  lighted 
my  pipe  and  then  we  talked.  Real  talk  is  after  all 
one  of  the  greatest  joys  of  life.  Each  wanted  to 
talk  and  each  wanted  to  hear  what  the  other  had  to 
say — an  unusually  fair  arrangement.  She  told  her 
trials  and  disappointments  and  I  told  mine.  Then 
we  pictured  our  dreams  and  our  hopes.  We  drew 
together  almost  insensibly  as  our  ideas  enmeshed. 
My  arm  across  her  shoulders  tightened  as  confidence 
grew  more  intimate.  She  felt  more  frail  than  I 
remembered  from  the  dances  of  yesterday.  A  surge 
of  pity  swept  through  me.  She  was  so  brave  and 


MOONLIGHT  77 

cheery  in  her  struggle  for  independence.  She  pro 
tested  that  she  didn't  really  want  independence.  The 
revelation  came  with  a  rush  of  words  and  a  few 
tears.  People  thought  she  liked  to  be  free  and  self- 
willed.  She  yearned  for  a  proud  dependence.  She 
had  no  illusion  as  to  her  destiny.  It  was  no  solitary 
triumph — her  solitude  meant  loneliness  on  the  road 
and  failure  at  the  end. 

"  'He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone,'  "  she 
quoted.  "That  wasn't  written  by  a  woman." 

"A  man  may  travel  faster,"  I  suggested.  "But 
it's  usually  a  case  of — 'I  don't  know  where  I'm  go 
ing  but  I'm  on  my  way.'  ' 

My  right  hand  had  found  her  two  hands  clasped 
together.  My  left  drew  her  head  down  on  my 
shoulder.  A  little  laugh  bubbled  up  from  hidden 
tears. 

"I  felt  so  tired  yesterday — I'm  so  comfy  now," 
she  said,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  snuggle  into 
my  arm. 


There  was  no  sound  except  the  crackle  of  the  fire. 
There  was  no  world  except  the  darkened  room — the 
firelight — Jeannette  and  I.  As  I  bent  down,  her 
drooping  lids  lifted  in  a  glance  of  half-surprise  and 
half-expectancy.  Then  her  lips  met  mine,  unhesitant 
and  generous,  and  I  held  her  long  and  close.  It 
seemed  that  somewhere  I  heard  a  song — a  song  of 
joy — that  would  last  while  we  two  clung  together — 
and  I  wanted  it  to  last  forever 


78  MOONLIGHT 

Then  I  was  kneeling  on  the  floor.  Somehow  I 
felt  I  must  explain. 

"I've  waited  so  long,"  I  said. 

"But  why?"  she  whispered.  "Tell  me,  Rodney, 
why?" 

"I  don't  know,"  was  all  I  could  answer,  but  I 
covered  her  hands  with  kisses. 

She  stood  up. 

"The  moon  is  shining  and  the  view  must  be  won 
derful." 

We  wandered  out  on  the  long  veranda,  moving 
slowly  with  our  arms  about  each  other.  Before  us 
lay  miles  of  woodland  and  fields — great  dark  patches 
and  pools  of  light  under  the  full  moon.  Here  and 
there  a  yellow  flicker  showed  that  there  were  homes 
and  living  people.  But  we  didn't  want  them  in  our 
world. 

"If  we  came  into  this  world  to  know  such  happi 
ness,"  I  began 

"Then  why  should  there  be  any  to-morrow?"  she 
finished. 

"If  this  isn't  the  end  and  aim  of  life  then  why 
should  we  know  such  joy?" 

I  resented  each  little  yellow  light  that  reminded 
me  of  a  world  of  drudgery. 

"Perhaps,"  she  answered;  "perhaps  to  give  us 
courage  to  go  through." 

"To  go  through — to  what  end?"  I  persisted. 

"It  must  be  beyond  our  dreaming." 

"Why  is  it  that  I  feel  as  though  I  should  like  to 
die  in  such  a  moment  as  this  before  the  spell  can 


MOONLIGHT  79 

break,  as  though  I  might  then  go  on  from  joy  to 
greater  joy.  Is  it  cowardice?  Do  I  dread  to  pay 
the  price?  Do  I  want  to  shirk  life — or  is  it  instinct 
to  follow  the  light  while  it  lasts?" 

"It's  your  imagination,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "the 
spirit  that  leaps  out  of  your  body — out  of  to-day — 
over  the  hills,  across  the  centuries — turns  back  from 
the  to-morrows  and  beckons  you  on.  Our  slow  mov 
ing  feet  have  no  wings." 

"Then  we'll  stand  on  the  magic  carpet  to-night 
and  fly  away  to  to-morrow  and  to-morrow." 

We  drew  still  closer  and  there  was  no  room  for 
even  words  between  us. 

Suddenly  she  wept,  at  first  quietly,  then  with  great 
sobs  that  shook  her  in  my  arms  while  I  tried  with 
stupid,  broken  phrases  to  comfort  her. 

And  then  she  smiled. 

"It's  because  I'm  so  happy,"  she  explained. 
"When  you  are  happy  you  worry  about  to-morrow, 
and  /  cry  because  of  yesterday." 

"Yes  I  hate  to  think  how  unhappy  I  may  be " 

"And  I  hate  to  think  how  unhappy  /  have  been." 

It  must  have  been  nearly  midnight  when  I  heard 
the  man,  John,  coming  up  the  steps  at  the  end  of 
the  veranda. 

"You  must  excuse  us  for  keeping  you  up,"  I  called 
out  to  him.  "I  had  forgotten  that  you  might  be 
waiting.  It  is  such  a  gorgeous  night  and  these  porch 
chairs  are  so  comfortable." 

"Oh  I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  slowly  lumbering 
toward  us.  "I  had  a  sight  of  chores  to  do.  Didn't 


8o  MOONLIGHT 

know  but  you  and  the  missus  maybe  wanted  to  put 
up  for  the  night.  Guess  we  could  manage  some 
how." 

I  would  say  that  according  to  his  lights  he  was  a 
very  tactful  old  gentleman. 

"No,  no  thank  you,"  I  answered  hastily,  "we 
should  have  started  home  before  this.  We've  quite 
a  drive  ahead  of  us.  I  wonder  if  you  have  any 
extra  gasoline.  I  may  be  a  bit  low." 

"I  can  let  you  have  a  few  gallons,  I  guess,"  he 
said — and  we  followed  him  down  the  steps  and  out 
of  cloudland. 


There  was  a  gray  light  in  the  east  as  I  drove  up 
Brattle  Street  to  the  home  of  Jeannette's  kind  and 
indulgent  hostess — who  had  given  her  a  key  and 
remarked  gayly,  and  wisely,  "I  shan't  be  sitting  up 
for  you,  even  if  you  come  in  before  twelve." 

It  was  daylight  as  I  crossed  Harvard  bridge — 
alone.  The  air  was  cold  and  wet  with  the  rising 
fog,  but  my  blood  was  racing  and  my  spirit  still 
soared.  Oh,  night  of  nights !  That  long,  long  road 
that  ended  all  too  soon!  That  tousled  head  that 
pressed  against  my  shoulder  and  the  shining  eyes 
that  pretended  surprise  when  I  stopped  on  the  little 
bridges  over  sparkling  waters  and  insisted  on  one 

more  good-night  kiss  before  she  fell  asleep .  And 

since  she  never  did  fall  asleep  there  were  a  great 
many  pauses  before  we  reached  Harvard  Square. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
FOG 

THE  persistent  telephone  bell  woke  me. 
"You  asked  me  to  call  you,"  she  said.     "It 
is  nearly  noon." 

"Oh  yes,  thank  you,"  I  answered,  fumbling  with 
my  thoughts.  "Have  you  had  breakfast?" 

"Long  ago,  poor  sleepy-head." 

Her  voice  had  a  strange  note  in  it — a  touch  of 
laughter — and  of  fear.  I  became  sufficiently  awake 
to  realize  that  my  greeting  must  have  contrasted 
poorly  with  my  parting  whispers  of  a  few  hours  be 
fore. 

"Will  you  be  ready  to  start  if  I  call  for  you  in 
an  hour,  dear?"  I  ventured,  clumsily. 

"Oh,  not  in  an  hour,  dear,"  she  answered  with 
light  mockery.  "I'm  all  ready  now,  but  I  shall  die 
if  I  wait  another  whole  hour." 

"You  old  darling,"  I  said,  "I'm  only  half  awake. 
After  I  come  out  of  the  shower  wide-awake,  I  won't 
even  think  of  stopping  for  breakfast.  I'll  be  at  your 
door  in  thirty-seven  and  one-half  minutes.  I'm  on 
my  way  already.  Good-bye." 

I  drove  up  ahead  of  schedule  but  she  was  stand 
ing  on  the  steps — and  looking  twice  as  (ovely  as  my 
thought  had  pictured  her. 

81 


82  FOG 

"Confound  you!"  I  protested,  as  she  slipped  into 
the  seat  beside  me,  "if  you  had  waited  until  I  rang 
the  bell,  I  could  have  kissed  you  in  the  hall,  and  now 
I  may  have  to  wait  twenty  miles." 

"Maybe  longer  than  that,"  she  retorted.  "I  think 
that  I  did  very  wrong  last  night  to  let  an  engaged 
man  make  love  to  me." 

Her  lips  were  laughing,  but  her  eyes  were  watch 
ing  me. 

"I  told  you  that  I  was  not  engaged.  I  told  you 
honestly  that  I  was  very  fond  of  Mary  and  I  also 
told  you  that  I  didn't  feel  toward  her  as  I  thought 
a  man  ought  to  feel  toward  the  woman  he  was  going 
to  marry." 

"You  don't  feel  toward  her  the  way  you  feel 
toward  me?"  she  inquired  quizzically. 

"Is  that  a  proposal?"  I  demanded,  slowing  down 
the  car.  "Because  if  it  is,  I  warn  you  that  I  may  throw 
myself  into  your  arms  right  before  all  these  people." 

"Horrors,  no!"  she  cried.  "Drive  on.  I  didn't 
know  you  could  be  so  nasty  before  breakfast.  I 
wouldn't  have  you  now  as  a  gift." 

We  kept  away  from  that  dangerous  subject  until 
late  in  the  evening.  All  afternoon  we  drove  north, 
away  from  Boston  and  its  far-flung  suburbs.  By 
nightfall  we  had  found  unfrequented  roads.  We 
loafed  along,  now  chatting  about  inconsequential 
things,  now  biting  deep  into  some  real  problem  of 
daily  living,  sometimes  consciously  abstract  in  our 
talk,  sometimes  intentionally  personal  in  applying 
our  thoughts  to  each  other. 


FOG  83 

But  whenever  I  drew  close  to  that  inner  self  that 
she  had  unveiled  to  me  so  freely  in  the  early  hours  of 
this  same  day — somehow  she  drew  away.  Our  lips 
met  now  and  then,  but  it  was  the  kiss  of  boy  and 
girl,  the  kiss  of  comradeship,  with  only  a  faint  flavor, 
not  even  a  half-promise,  of  something  more.  I  was 
eager  to  reassert  the  mood  of  the  preceding  night, 
and  yet  content  to  wait,  unwilling  to  risk  even  a 
momentary  hesitation  from  her  who  had  come  to 
my  arms  with  a  love  that  seemed  all  gift  and  no 
demand. 

About  eight  o'clock  we  ran  into  a  village  where 
we  found  a  little  crumbling  hotel  that  looked  as 
though  it  might  have  been  a  tavern  in  the  days  of 
the  revolution.  A  spare  and  dismal  female  agreed 
to  furnish  us  food  and  ushered  us  into  a  dingy  dining 
room,  lit  by  one  oil  lamp,  which  was  fortified  by  a 
tin  reflector.  In  our  expectant  mood  the  surround 
ings  lightened  our  spirits  instead  of  depressing  them. 
I  think  each  of  us  felt  on  the  brink  of  revelation — 
and  what  is  so  cheering  as  the  hope  of  self-revela 
tion  to  a  favoring  audience? 

To  our  surprise  the  mournful  hostess  eventually 
returned  to  us  with  two  small  and  quite  tender  steaks, 
garnished  with  sizzling  potatoes  and  accompanied 
by  some  lonesome  sliced  tomatoes.  Bread  and  but 
ter  were  beyond  criticism  and  the  coffee  was  fresh 
made,  while  the  apple  pie  upheld  the  best  New 
England  traditions.  On  our  departure  we  were 
favored  with  a  thin,  but  evidently  genuine,  smile  of 
pleasure  at  our  enthusiastic  gratitude. 


84  FOG 

A  fog  was  drifting  in  from  the  ocean  and,  as  we 
drove  easterly,  into  the  marshy  country,  the  road 
became  a  mysterious  highway  into  an  uninhabited 
land,  while  from  far  away  we  heard  the  murmur  of 
the  sea.  We  tasted  its  briny  flavor  on  our  lips.  A 
vague  moonlight  showed  us  now  and  then  wide 
stretches  of  barren  plain  through  openings  in  the 
woodlands  that  flanked  the  roadway.  Before  long 
we  had  left  the  trees  behind  and  the  fog  grew 
heavier.  I  drove  slowly.  The  lights  of  the  car  re 
vealed  only  a  few  feet  of  deeply  rutted  road.  At 
intervals  the  groaning  note  of  a  bell-buoy  sounded 
faintly  above  the  increasing  noise  of  the  sea. 

"I  don't  know  where  we  are  going,"  I  said,  "but 
it's  like  life — a  little  light  here  for  you  and  me  in 
our  brief  hour — darkness  and  mystery  all  around." 

"Except  that  we  can  go  back  if  we  lose  our  way," 
she  whispered.  "In  life  you  can't  go  back.  You 
must  find  some  way  to  go  on." 

"Then  we'll  make  it  life,"  I  answered.  "We'll 
find  some  way  to  go  on." 

"I  wonder,"  she  said. 

I  stopped  the  car. 

"What  is  the  use  evading?"  I  burst  forth,  unable 
to  restrain  my  insistent  feelings.  "The  question  is, 
do  we  want  to  go  on?  If  you  do  we  will  find  the 
way.  I  can't  help  it,  Jeannette.  I've  tried  to  be  a 
reasoning  being — but  I'm  not.  I  can't  think  it 
through.  I  only  know  what  I  want — and  I  want  to 
have  you." 

For  a  moment  I  overwhelmed  her  with  my  desire 


FOG  85 

for  her  arms,  her  lips,  her  cheek  against  mine,  her 
moist  hair  tingling  across  my  forehead. 

"But,  Rodney."  She  finally  stopped  my  eager 
mouth  with  her  hand.  "There  is  that  same  'but' 
again.  Last  night  you  said  you  had  waited  so  long, 
and  to-night  you  say  you  can't  help  it.  Why  did  you 
wait  and  why  do  you  want  to  help  it?  Something 
holds  you  back  from  the  full  giving.  You  want  some 
thing  from  me — but  you  don't  want  to  give." 

"Yes,  yes  I  do.  I  want  to  give  you  everything. 
I  want  to  make  you  happy.  I  want  to  see  your  eyes 
shine.  But  a  thousand  ancestors  have  given  me  a 
thousand  fool  ideas  of  what  is  good  and  wise  and 
right — and  I  want  to  do  what  is  good  and  wise  and 
right — and  I  can't  see  clearly  and  when  I  start  to 
go  ahead  on  a  great  decision  a  lot  of  these  fool  in 
herited  ideas  tell  me  to  go  ahead  and  a  lot  of  them 
tell  me  to  hold  back.  It's  all  those  rotten  ancestors 
who  bother  me.  All  that  I  am  to-day  wants  you.  All 
that  I  know  to-night  is  that  I  am  a  wanting  man 
and  you  are  the  dearest,  most  wonderful  woman 
I've  ever  known— and  I  don't  want  to  lose  you  to 
morrow." 

"But  to-morrow,"  she  insisted,  "your  ancestors 
will  come  back  in  the  daylight  and  tell  you  that  you 
don't  really  care  nearly  as  much  for  me  as  you 
thought." 

"No  that  isn't  it."  I  was  on  the  defensive.  Sud 
denly  I  had  an  inspiration. 

"It  isn't  my  ancestors  after  all,  Jeannette.  I  see 
it  now.  I  was  all  wrong.  It's  you.  You  don't 


86  FOG 

know.  You  don't  know  whether  I  am  the  man  or 
not.  You  don't  call  for  me.  You're  not  sure  you 
want  me.  If  you  wanted  me  you  would  take  me. 
I'm  the  humbler  creature,  like  every  man  who  is 
really  in  love.  And  you  are  the  woman,  the  woman 
who  always  decides.  Confess  it  now.  You  are  my 
uncertainty.  You  don't  know." 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  she  confessed.  "And  yet, 
I  feel  that  it  isn't  that  I  don't  know  what  I  want. 
But  I  don't  want  any  man  who  has  any  doubt  as  to 
what  he  wants.  So  we  come  back  to  your  doubts 
at  the  end,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  now,  'I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt.'  Why 
should  I  try  to  match  words  with  you?  Brute  force 
is  my  best  argument  and  the  only  one  you  really 
respect." 

For  a  moment  she  protested,  and  then  again,  as 
in  the  firelit  room  at  Baldpate  Inn,  she  relaxed  and 
came  into  my  arms  with  a  passionate  tenderness  that 
thrilled  me  through  and  through.  The  fog  rolled 
around  us — the  breaking  seas  thundered  in  our  ears 
— and  clinging  together  we  floated  away,  tempest 
driven — lost  to  all  the  world — and  madly  happy. 

She  shivered. 

"Are  you  cold,  dear?" 

"Not  cold,"  she  whispered.  "I  think  I'm  a  little 
afraid.  The  fog,  the  sound  of  the  breakers — I  feel 
as  though  I  were  drifting  too  far  out  to  sea.  We 
must  go  back." 

"Oh,  not  so  soon." 

"It's  a  long  way  home,  dear  boy.     Don't  forget 


FOG  87 

that  I  must  take  a  train  at  six-thirty  in  the  morning 
— back  to  school." 

Her  voice  broke  a  trifle.  She  released  herself 
and  began  rearranging  her  hair. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  back  to  that  school,"  I 
began 

"Let's  talk  about  that  on  the  way  home.  Really 
I'm  just  a  little  frightened  in  this  lonesome  place — 
and  with  such  a  strange  rough  man" — her  eyes 
twinkled — "instead  of  that  nice  boy  Rodney  who 
was  always  such  a  safe  playfellow,  until  yesterday." 

We  were  a  long  time  finding  our  way  back  to  the 
Boston  Road.  When  we  were  finally  rolling  along 
the  familiar  way  somehow  we  began  to  talk  of  the 
past  instead  of  the  future.  We  reviewed  all  our  old 
times  together,  the  long  walks,  the  football  games, 
the  dances,  the  theater  parties,  of  my  Law  School 
days.  I  realized  with  a  shock  as  we  crossed  Harvard 
Bridge  that  nothing  had  been  said  about  to-morrow 
— the  to-morrow  that  I  had  sketched  in  disjointed 
phrases  as  I  held  her  in  my  arms — and  told  her  how 
I  had  dreamed  and  hoped  and  yet  never  dared  to 
believe  that  she  and  I — would  plan — each  for  the 
other  and  with  the  other — always — together. 

I  started  to  protest.  I  could  not  drive  her  directly 
home.  We  had  too  much  to  say,  too  much  that 
must  be  said — to-night. 

"No,  not  to-night,"  she  said.  "Please,  Rodney, 
please.  You  must  let  me  think.  We  have  turned 
a  sharp  corner,  very  suddenly.  Don't  make  me 
hurry  on." 


88  FOG 

"But  you  are  going  back  to-morrow  morning." 

"This  morning,"  she  smiled,  pointing  to  the  big 
white  dial  on  the  tower,  which  registered  one  o'clock. 

"But  I  must  go  back  to  Chicago  just  as  soon  as 
my  work  is  done.  I  can't  go  back  without  seeing  you 
again." 

"You  must,"  she  answered.  "It  is  better  that  way. 
Please  don't  even  telephone  before  you  go.  We'll 
say  good-bye  to-night  and  then  we  will  go  away  from 
each  other  for  a  while  and  try  to  think.  We  are 
both  a  little  crazy  just  now,  you  know." 

"If  this  is  being  crazy,  I  don't  want  to  be  sane 
again,"  I  insisted.  "Let's  stay  crazy." 

"We  can't,"  she  said.  "I  know  it  to-night  and 
you'll  know  it  to-morrow.  But  don't  misunderstand 
me,  dear.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  loved  you?" 

"I  believe  you  did." 

"Then  remember  this:  I  meant  it — and  I  always 
shall.  No.  No.  Don't — not  just  now — I  can't 
stand  it .  Not  until  we  say  good-bye.  But  re 
member:  I  meant  it — and  I  always  shall." 


It  was  not  until  Thursday  morning  that  I  reached 
Chicago.  In  a  heap  of  collected  mail  on  my  desk 
was  a  square  blue  envelope  that  I  seized  at  once. 
Did  it  contain  the  solution  of  my  problem?  All  the 
long  day  of  the  journey  I  had  sat  staring  out  of  the 
window  into  a  hidden  future.  At  night  I  had  lain 
awake  for  hours  in  my  berth.  Finally  it  seemed  that 


FOG  89 

half  an  answer  came  to  my  great  question.     Not  a 
very  heroic  answer — yet  it  seemed  the  right  one. 

The  full  answer  would  come  from  Jeannette — 
not  from  me.  That  was  my  solution.  Perhaps  it 
was  in  this  blue  envelope.  I  had  tried  to  face  my 
questions  honestly — not  as  a  practical  man  making 
a  mean  effort  to  calculate  worldly  advantage — not 
as  a  romantic  boy  foolishly  playing  fairyland  in 
everyday  life.  But  honestly  I  had  sought  to  measure 
our  chances  of  growth  as  a  man  and  as  a  woman — 
together.  Would  each  help  or  hinder  the  other? 
In  every  mental  way  I  felt  sure  that  Jeannette  would 
stimulate  and  encourage  me — lift  up  my  aspirations 
and  keep  my  mind  alert.  It  was  a  craving  for  that 
aid  which  I  felt  most  satisfied  even  in  a  passionate 
caress.  And  my  doubting,  my  perplexity  with  life 
— she  would  share  that — at  first  a  pleasant  and  then 
a  discomforting  thought.  Wasn't  that  a  lack  she 
had  found  in  me?  She  had  said:  "I  don't  want  a 
man  who  has  any  doubt  as  to  what  he  wants."  Her 
questioning  spirit  sought  a  self-confident  mate.  My 
friends  thought  me  opinionated,  too  self-reliant — 
but  her  insight  went  deeper.  She  found  me  wanting. 

Perhaps  that  was  why  I  felt  so  comfortable  with 
Mary.  Life  was  a  much  simpler  thing  to  Mary  than 
to  Jeannette.  Mary's  God  had  arranged  for 
churches,  where  Mary  could  go  and  hear  divine  wis 
dom  conveyed  to  her  in  ordinary  human  words 
through  regularly  ordained  preachers  to  whom  had 
been  revealed  eternal  truth.  In  this  way  Mary  was 
provided  with  neat  answers  to  all  questionings  as 


90  FOG 

to  good  or  evil.  She  always  knew  which  way  was 
forward  and  which  way  was  back.  But  Jeannette 
and  I  were  always  puzzled  and  uncertain.  Our  God 
was  reticent,  evasive — not  unreal,  but  always  unreal 
ized — yet  not  comfortably  remote,  but  very  near  and 
most  disturbing.  I  might  say  without  irreverence 
that  Jeannette  and  I  felt  that  we  must  take  care  of 
our  God — but  Mary's  God  took  care  of  her. 

I  had  done  a  good  deal  of  thinking  about  children. 
When  I  imagined  a  home  with  Jeannette  the  thought 
of  children  seemed  an  intrusion.  Jeannette  herself 
seemed  so  much  more  important  than  any  child.  I 
did  not  like  to  think  of  any  sacrifice  of  her  and  her 
life  for  children.  Her  individual  development  would 
be  more  important  than  the  development  of  a  family. 
Toward  Mary  my  attitude  was  different.  Mary's 
accepted  destiny  was  motherhood.  What  an  ideal 
mother  she  would  be — just,  patient,  loving  and 
assured  in  her  simple  wisdom. 

Out  of  all  my  guessing  and  dreaming  had  come 
my  half  answer:  The  woman  knows.  Her  instinct 
is  truer.  Jeannette  knows  whether  she  wants  me. 
I  doubt  if  Mary  wants  any  one  man.  She  only  wants 
a  certain  kind  of  man — just  as  I  want  a  certain  kind 
of  woman — like  Mary — for  a  certain  kind  of  life — 
the  conventional  kind  of  life,  which  may  be  the  wisest 
kind  of  life  for  me.  With  Jeannette  life  will  be 
more  of  an  adventure — a  greater  hazard — more 
likelihood  of  failure  and  the  chance  of  a  greater 
success. 


YOG  91 

I  opened  the  blue  envelope — in  hope,  and  in  fear. 
This  is  what  she  wrote : 

"My  dear,  dear  Rodney — you  may  never  understand  this 
poor  effort  of  mine  but  do  believe  that  I  mean  exactly  what 
I  am  going  to  say  and  that  I  shall  do  what  I  am  going  to 
do  feeling  certain  that  it  is  best  for  you  and  best  for  me.  I 
have  decided  to  marry  Jim.  You  didn't  know  there  was 
any  Jim,  which  was  unfair  of  me  because  you  told  me  a 
little,  not  very  frankly,  about  Mary.  I,  too,  had  my  doubts. 
You  and  I  have  been  such  good  friends  so  long — you  have 
been,  and  always  will  be,  so  dear  to  me — that  it  seemed  as 
though  I  could  not  marry  Jim  and  never  know  what  it 
would  mean  to  feel  your  arms  around  me,  never  know  but 
that  if  you  had  come  to  me  some  day  and  told  me  that  you 
loved  me  I  should  have  known  a  joy  greater  than  any  other 
joy  in  life. 

"Into  the  very  depth  of  my  uncertainty  came  your  voice 
over  the  telephone.  You  may  think  I  encouraged  you  to 
make  love  to  me,  those  two  wonderful  days.  Perhaps  I 
did.  I  tried  not  to  do  so.  But  oh,  I  wanted  so  to  know. 
And  now,  am  I  disillusioned?  Not  at  all.  You  are  not 
a  clever  lover,  dear,  as  my  small  experience  goes — but  I'll 
whisper  in  your  ear  that  you  are  the  sweetest,  tenderest  lover 
I  shall  ever  know.  Now  I  know  that  I  have  always  loved 
you  and  I  always  shall.  But  I  am  going  to  marry  Jim. 

"You  and  I  are  not  good  medicine  for  each  other,  dear, 
at  least  not  yet — and  'not  yet'  means  the  same  as  'never.' 
We  both  need  a  steadying  mate.  We  would  wear  each  other 
down,  each  of  us  bent  on  self-assertion,  each  fighting  to  pre 
serve  an  individuality  in  a  world  of  commonplace.  You 
were  right  in  your  doubt  and  I  had  my  doubt  too — I'll 
confess  it. 

"Jim  has  no  doubts.  He's  a  mining  engineer.  He'll  pack 
me  up  and  carry  me  around  the  world  with  him,  never 


92  FOG 

questioning  but  that  it  is  for  my  good  to  have  my  life  follow 
his,  never  doubting  the  supreme  importance  of  his  plans — 
any  more  than  he  doubts  now  the  supreme  importance  of 
having  me  to  carry  along  with  his  other  luggage.  Really  I 
quite  adore  Jim.  Don't  let  anything  in  this  letter  seem  to 
reflect  on  him.  I  shall  be  proudly  dependent  upon  him.  I 
shall  rebel  at  times  and  he  will  call  out  the  troops  to  save 
the  union  and  my  rebellion  will  be  suppressed. 

"One  last  word,  dearest  boy.  Of  course,  you  won't  think 
that  I  was  playing  with  you  any  more  than  you  were  play 
ing  with  me.  We  are  both  born  doubters  who  must  touch 
wet  paint  and  put  fingers  in  the  fire  and  investigate  and 
explore  and  suffer  and  keep  trying  to  find  truth.  We 
couldn't  marry  apart  without  first  trying  to  find  out  whether 
we  wanted  to  marry  together,  could  we? 

"And  I  refuse  to  suffer  for  my  happiness,  Rodney.  I  will 
not  be  sorry  for  those  two  days  of  rapture,  though  I  have  cried 
a  good  deal — but  that  is  my  way  of  being  happy,  you  know. 
I  wish,  oh  how  I  wish,  that  I  could  be  with  you  often,  but 
that  cannot  be.  I  think  it  will  be  better  if  a  long  time 
passes  before  we  meet  again.  But  we  must  meet  again.  This 
is  not  farewell. 

"I  hope — yes,  I  believe  you  will  understand. 

"Please  remember  what  I  told  you.  I  meant  it  and  I  al 
ways  shall." 


CHAPTER  IX 
GETTING  AND  SPENDING 

IT  is  now  over  two  years  since  Mary  and  I  re 
turned  from  our  short  honeymoon  and  estab 
lished  ourselves  in  that  five-room  section  of  a 
huge,  ugly  apartment  building  which  we  call  home. 
As  I  look  back  upon  our  three  weeks  at  White 
Springs  it  seems  like  the  last  chapter  of  the  myth 
of  youth.  The  unreal  irresponsibility  of  the  boy 
Rodney  had  its  full  flowering  in  those  days  of 
romance.  I  spent  freely  and  luxuriously  a  consider 
able  sum  out  of  the  balance  of  my  savings  which 
remained  after  paying  for  the  furnishings  of  this 
"home."  For  the  time  I  banished  from  my  mind 
doubts  of  the  past  and  worries  of  the  future. 

"We  can't  have  but  one  honeymoon,"  said  Mary 
and  I.  "We  will  not  skimp  its  pleasure." 

We  rode  and  drove  together  in  the  mild  sweet 
sunshine.  We  took  long  walks  in  moonlit  trails  that 
wound  around  the  hillsides.  We  played  at  golf  and 
'danced  and  loitered  along  through  Elysian  days.  At 
the  end  we  started  homeward  with  a  certain  dis 
mayed  feeling  that  we  should  have  planned  a  longer 
stay  in  this  isle  of  enchantment  to  which  we  would 
never  be  able  to  return.  Yet  this  regret  was  soon 


94  GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

lost  in  anticipation  of  all  the  strange  pleasures  of 
making  a  new  home  and  living  a  new  life,  which 
awaited  us  there,  in  the  city  of  dirt  and  noise,  but 
also  of  pleasant  familiar  ways  and  friendly  faces. 

Home-making  did  not  prove  exactly  the  easy 
entertainment  that  we  had  expected.  There  were 
differences  of  taste  and  judgment  that  seemed  trifling 
at  the  outset  but  which  grew  in  importance  as  they 
repeated  themselves  in  discussion  and  planning. 
There  were  financial  difficulties  in  the  way  of  ac 
complishing  a  large  number  of  our  desires  and  we 
found  the  phrase  "we'll  have  to  do  without  that" 
so  often  in  our  life  that  the  early  sweet  taste  of 
sacrifice  soured  very  soon  to  the  bitter  flavor  of 
repression. 

In  Mary  I  discovered  some  baffling  moods — 
illogical  attitudes  which  lost  the  charm  they  wore 
in  days  of  courtship  and  became  curiously  irritating. 
In  me  she  found  a  stubbornness,  which  I  deny  all  the 
more  vehemently  because  I  fear  she  is  right.  I  am 
not  going  to  set  down  a  criticism  of  Mary  because 
she  has  behaved  splendidly  in  all  the  trouble  that 
has  come  upon  us.  But  this  I  will  say.  I  must  criti 
cize  her  father  and  her  mother  for  failing  to  give 
her  any  idea  of  the  relationship  between  money  and 
hours  of  work.  Being  a  lawyer,  every  dollar  I  obtain 
comes  from  a  certain  amount  of  time  spent  in  doing 
something.  I  cannot  increase  my  income  by  digging 
more  coal,  or  selling  more  soap,  or  by  advertising 
bargains,  or  by  absorbing  competitors,  or  by  any  of 
the  various  means  whereby  Brown  and  Smith  and 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING  95 

Jones  may  rise  from  poverty  to  affluence  in  ten  years 
or  less.  The  legal  path  to  riches  is  a  long,  narrow 
way  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs.  Progress  is  usually 
slow;  and  those  who  try  to  go  on  a  run  are  likely 
to  fall  exhausted,  even  if  they  avoid  a  fatal  misstep, 
before  they  have  advanced  very  far. 

As  I  write  these  words  I  know  that  only  a  small 
number  out  of  five  thousand  lawyers  in  this  city  are 
earning  as  much  money  as  I  am.  For  ordinary 
routine  work  it  is  impossible  to  charge  at  a  rate  which 
will  produce  even  what  I  make  above  my  office  ex 
penses.  It  requires  specially  good  cases,  in  addition 
to  the  regular  grind.  But  Smith  and  Brown  and 
Jones,  the  wholesaler,  the  manufacturer  and  the  job 
ber,  whose  sales  may  be  expanded  considerably 
according  to  their  abilities  and  energies  are  making 
profits  out  of  the  labor  of  other  men.  Their  annual 
income  is  not  limited  by  their  hours  of  work,  but 
only  by  the  ability  with  which  they  use  their  hours. 

Mary  cannot  grasp  this  distinction  between  the 
money-making  ability  of  the  lawyer  and  of  the  busi 
ness  man.  Eventually  I  may  become  one  of  the 
heads  of  a  big  law  office  and  profit  somewhat  out 
of  the  work  of  subordinates.  But  to  the  end  of  my 
days  my  earnings  out  of  the  law  will  depend  largely 
on  the  charges  which  I  can  make  for  my  own  time. 
Age  and  experience  and  prestige  alone  can  materially 
increase  my  earning  powers. 

I  try  to  explain  this  to  Mary.  She  answers  that 
Mr.  Moulton,  the  lumber  dealer,  is  reputed  to  have 
made  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  the  last  three 


96  GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

years!  I  stiffen  my  jaw  and  again  point  out  that  I 
am  selling  my  time  and  not  lumber.  She  remarks 
that  Jethro  Dean,  who  is  a  lawyer,  is  also  a  million 
aire.  I  suggest  that  Dean  is  sixty-five  years  old, 
that  he  made  most  of  his  money  in  the  Independent 
Steel  Company  and  that  he  obtained  a  foothold  in 
that  company  through  his  wife's  inheritance  of  a 
block  of  stock  from  her  father.  Mary  concludes  the 
discussion  by  remarking  plaintively  that  all  our 
friends  seem  to  be  making  more  money  than  I  am, 
yet  "I  certainly  think  you  have  more  brains  than 
most  of  them."  In  some  way  she  suggests  the  idea 
that  I  am  perversely  squandering  my  talents.  She 
indicates  an  opinion  that  an  impractical  idealism  leads 
me  to  waste  time  amusing  myself  with  social  and 
civic  problems  whereby  she  is  deprived  of  the  luxuries 
provided  for  their  wives  by  more  practical  husbands. 
At  this  stage  I  either  become  inexcusably  profane 
or  else  take  refuge  in  unmanly  sulks. 

Let  me  say  in  defense  of  Mary  that  she  has  been 
sorely  tried  for  many  months.  Most  unexpectedly 
our  first  few  weeks  of  comparative  comfort  were 
changed  into  straining  effort  to  carry  an  almost  im 
possible  burden.  It  is  not  surprising  that  Mary, 
who  had  prepared  for  economical  luxury,  as  the  wife 
of  a  prospering  young  lawyer,  was  resentful  at  the 
requirement  of  parsimonious  living  in  a  household 
where  even  payment  of  rent  has  been  a  matter  of 
monthly  anxiety. 

The  change  in  our  fortunes  came  almost  without 
warning — only  a  couple  of  months  after  the  end  of 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING  97 

the  honeymoon.  My  father  came  down  to  the  office 
rather  late  one  morning.  He  stopped  at  my  door 
for  a  moment  and  remarked  that  he  was  feeling  a 
little  queer,  that  he  guessed  he  had  eaten  something 
that  had  disagreed  with  him.  There  was  a  look  of 
worry  in  his  eyes — something  like  the  shadow  of  an 
approaching  fear — as  he  passed  on  to  his  room.  I 
leaned  back  in  my  chair  shaken  with  a  premonitory 
dread  of  trouble  near  at  hand. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  heard  him  shouting  some 
command  to  a  hurrying  stenographer,  with  accus 
tomed  vigor  and  impatience  and,  repressing  my  in 
stinctive  fears,  I  turned  again  to  my  work.  It  must 
have  been  an  hour  later  when  his  secretary  hurried 
into  my  room,  her  face  pale  and  hands  trembling. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  your  father,"  she  stam 
mered.  "He  can't  talk.  He  looks  very  sick." 

I  ran  into  his  office.  He  was  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  inertly.  He  looked  like  a  drunken  man  and 
apparently  could  not  hold  up  his  head.  He  tried 
to  speak  to  me,  but  only  unintelligible  sounds  came 
out  of  his  loose  lips.  He  raised  his  left  arm  and 
attempted  to  show  me  that  his  right  arm  hung  help 
less.  I  had  never  seen  anyone  in  his  condition,  but 
the  obvious  thought  exploded  in  my  mind  and  left 
me  momentarily  dazed.  It  must  be  a  stroke  of 
paralysis. 

"I'll  call  Dr.  Nevinson,"  I  said  very  loudly,  feel 
ing  that  I  was  speaking  to  a  deaf  person. 

A  flicker  of  relief — of  hope — passed  across  his 
face. 


98  GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

An  hour  later  he  was  lying  in  his  bed  at  home  and 
mother  and  I  were  listening  to  the  doctor's  verdict. 

"He  may  recover  from  this  stroke.  It's  impos 
sible  to  tell,  but  it's  somewhat  likely.  The  future 
depends  upon  how  far  the  blood  clot  in  the  brain 
dissolves.  He  may  even  recover  the  use  of  the  arm 
and  leg.  But  you  may  as  well  understand  at  once 
that  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  His  work  is 
done.  Careful  treatment,  easy  living,  absence  of 
worry  and  strain — all  these  things  may  prolong  his 
life — perhaps  a  year,  two  years,  five  years — no  one 
can  tell.  But  his  working  days  are  over.  As  soon 
as  he  is  able  to  hear  the  news  you  must  tell  him,  so 
that  he  will  let  you  put  his  affairs  in  shape  and  not 
begin  a  new  series  of  worries.  He  must  leave  every 
thing  to  you,  Rodney.  Make  that  very  clear  to  him 
and  I  will  back  you  up.  He  must  drop  all  his 
responsibilities  and  understand  that  he  cannot  expect 
to  take  them  up  again." 

In  a  few  days  we  told  him.  He  received  our 
message  in  silence  with  a  strange  look  of  mingled 
terror  and  relief.  His  terror  harrowed  me  greatly 
because  I  knew  his  dread  of  death.  Life  on  this 
earth  was  all  that  his  philosophy  accepted.  He  had 
neither  fears  of  future  pain  nor  hopes  of  happiness. 
As  he  saw  it  the  door  out  of  the  warm,  bright  house 
of  life  opened  upon  a  black  void.  One  stepped  out 
into  nothingness — a  horrible  anticipation,  because  in 
his  view  apparently  one  stepped  out  alive,  alert  and 
strong  into  nothingness.  His  imagination  had  not 
pictured  that  gradual  dissolution  of  his  powerful  bulk 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING  99 

of  flesh  and  blood  into  a  worn-out  discomforting  use 
less  thing  which  the  spirit  would  gladly  and  easily 
leave  behind  when  the  time  came  to  float  out  through 
that  door. 

I  could  understand  his  terror,  but  the  relief  which 
I  could  see  plainly  mingled  with  it,  puzzled  me  until 
I  actually  took  over  his  affairs.  Then  I  understood 
why  he  was  so  glad  to  lay  his  burden  down.  I  could 
understand  the  comfort  that  would  come  to  a  man 
who  could  think:  "I'll  never  have  to  worry  about 
those  things  any  more." 

For  a  brainy,  successful  man  he  had  managed  to 
tangle  up  his  personal  affairs  remarkably.  The  busi 
ness  of  his  clients  was  reasonably  well  ordered,  and 
in  shape  to  be  taken  up  easily  and  carried  forward. 
But  his  personal  business  records  were  unintelligible 
memoranda,  incomplete  correspondence,  illegible 
little  half-filled  diaries  and  account  books,  check 
books  balanced  with  his  bank  account  by  a  system  all 
his  own,  evidently  devised  for  the  purpose  of  conceal 
ing  information.  He  had  no  clear  record  even  of 
notes  or  bills  outstanding.  It  was  evident  to  me  after 
a  week's  work  that  he  must  have  carried  on  for  some 
years  an  elaborate  system  of  self-deception  whereby 
he  prevented  himself  from  knowing  his  own  financial 
condition,  in  order  that  he  might  draw  successfully 
on  his  imagination  in  deceiving  others,  including  his 
own  family,  as  to  his  prosperity. 

As  a  result,  his  family  had  not  taken  seriously 
occasional  complaints  of  poverty  in  view  of  more 
frequent  and  vehement  assertions  of  the  successful 


ioo         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

character  of  all  his  business  operations.  So  great 
was  his  pride  in  being  known  as  a  successful  man 
that  he  could  not  bear  even  to  destroy  the  illusion 
in  his  own  children  but  actually  encouraged  them  to 
make  daily  additions  to  the  back-breaking  load  he 
was  carrying. 

J  could  not  believe  that  the  situation  was  as 
desperate  as  my  investigation  disclosed.  There  must 
be  some  hidden  resource  on  which  he  had  counted 
to  meet  all  his  obligations — notes  at  the  bank,  over 
due  taxes,  mortgage  interest,  bills  and  more  bills 
to  come.  I  had  never  known  his  income  because 
we  were  not  really  partners.  When  I  started  to 
practice  he  had  paid  me  a  salary  for  a  time.  More 
recently — since  my  return  from  public  office — we  had 
shared  fees  in  cases  that  he  asked  me  to  work  on. 
But  he  did  considerable  work  all  alone,  and  was 
always  quite  secretive  about  it. 

With  much  hesitation  I  presented  my  gloomy  re 
port  to  him — a  statement  of  assets  and  liabilities.  I 
read  them  aloud  to  him.  Yes,  the  liabilities  were 
all  correct  except — he  owed  this — and  that.  Alto 
gether  he  added  nearly  a  thousand  dollars  from 
memory  of  scattering  accounts.  Also  he  was  a 
guarantor  of  some  notes  amounting  to  about  eight 
thousand  dollars,  but  he  though  Markelby  who  had 
made  the  notes  would  come  into  an  inheritance  within 
a  year  or  so,  and  would  pay  them. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  the  assets  are  all  right,"  said  I, 
trying  to  appear  cheerful.  "Have  I  missed  any 
thing?" 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         101 

I  was  sure  he  would  say,  yes.  He  must  have  some 
thing  concealed  somewhere  with  which  to  pay  this 
long  list  of  debts. 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  mild  apologetic  smile. 
"There  is  nothing  more.  But,  Rodney,  those  rail 
road  bonds — those  aren't  mine.  Mrs.  Gunderson 
put  them  up  to  secure  a  note,  which  I  paid  off  at 
the  bank  last  week,  when  I  sold  her  old  house.  I 
placed  them  in  my  box  for  safe-keeping.  She's  in 
California,  you  know." 

"Those  aren't  yours !"  I  exclaimed.  "There  isn't 
much  left  in  the  assets  when  you  take  those  away." 

"Pretty  bad,  isn't  it!"  he  whispered,  with  a  repeti 
tion  of  that  wan  smile. 

"Well,  I've  some  good  news,"  I  said  hastily.  "I 
had  an  offer  yesterday  to  become  general  counsel 
of  the  Consolidated  Motor  Car  Company — so  don't 
let  this  bother  you.  Things  are  looking  all  right  for 
me.  Only  I  want  to  get  your  matters  in  good  shape 
so  I  won't  have  to  keep  worrying  you  with  ques 
tions." 

It  was  not  hard  to  speak  cheerfully  when  I  was 
with  him.  I  saw  him,  who  had  always  borne  himself 
so  reliantly,  who  had  covered  his  distresses  with  such 
a  show  of  confidence — I  saw  him  now,  stripped  of 
all  pretense,  helpless,  resigned.  His  pathetic  mild 
ness  aroused  an  intense  desire  to  accomplish  some 
incredible  coup  whereby  it  might  be  possible  to  show 
him  that  after  all  he  had  done  extraordinarily  well 
and  could  lie  down  to  sleep  in  deserved  content. 

In  truth  as  I  dug  deeper  into  the  records,  the  con- 


102         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

viction  came  to  me  that  he  had  done  very  well. 
Money-making  is  not  the  test  of  all  ability  or  success. 
All  his  life  he  had  fought  to  accomplish  things  which 
seemed  to  him  worth  achieving.  He  had  given  him 
self  generously  in  unpaid  service  to  the  public.  He 
had  held  a  high  office  for  years  that  carried  with 
it  no  salary.  He  had  given  fifteen  years  to  another 
public  work,  where  even  his  expenses  came  out  of 
his  own  pocket.  He  had  not  been  willing  to  deny 
his  family  the  comforts  they  craved,  in  order  that 
he  might  fill  these  honorable  positions.  He  had  gone 
into  debt,  straining  his  credit  to  the  utmost  to  give 
his  children  educational  advantages — and  now  it  was 
right  that  they  should  take  up  the  burdens  he  had 
assumed  for  their  benefit.  It  was  the  least  that  I 
could  do  now  to  lighten  the  load  that  rested  on  him 
as  he  lay  helpless. 

A  few  weeks  later  when  I  came  into  the  house  in 
the  late  afternoon  for  a  little  talk  before  going  to 
my  own  home,  my  mother  met  me  outside  the  door 
of  his  room. 

"Dr.  Nevinson  is  here,"  she  said.  "Father — has 
— gone  to  sleep.  He  looks  so  peaceful — so  rested. 
I  know  I  ought  to  be  glad — for  him." 


This  is  the  first  time  death  has  come  so  close  to 
me.  I  have  never  been  able  to  imagine  what  life 
would  be  without  one  of  the  two  who  have  always 
been  a  part  of  my  life.  From  earliest  recollection 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         103 

there  have  always  been  father  and  mother.     Now 
there  is  only  mother. 

The  face  of  death  is  not  so  unkind  when  it  comes 
near.  I  see  in  it  now,  as  in  my  father's  face,  the 
answer  to  the  question  that  I  feared  had  no  answer 
— the  fulfillment  of  a  promise  that  I  did  not  know 
had  been  made — and  yet  had  always  relied  upon. 


Many  times  I  have  wondered  why  so  little  is  writ 
ten  down  in  books  about  the  everyday  struggle  to 
get  and  the  everyday  necessity  to  spend.  "Getting 
and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers."  In  this 
line  of  Wordsworth's  there  has  seemed  to  me  a  text 
for  a  great  story  of  life.  Yet  most  writers,  even 
the  sternest  realists,  pass  lightly  over  the  detail  of 
how  a  man  plans  and  drudges  and  acquires  and  how 
the  bills  accumulate  while  creditors  and  dependents 
insistently  press  their  demands,  until  the  weary 
worker  wonders  how  a  world  full  of  overdriven  men 
and  women  is  not  more  insane  even  than  it  appears 
in  our  moments  of  exceptional  sanity. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  write  of  my  recent  months 
I  find  there  is  little  to  tell  that  is  worth  the  telling. 
Like  others  who,  I  have  felt,  neglected  their  oppor 
tunity  to  write  a  great  story  of  ordinary  living,  I 
shall  merely  sketch  an  outline  of  my  days. 

Somehow  or  other  I  have  managed  to  keep  the 
ship  afloat.  For  a  time  I  was  quite  desperate.  Es 
pecially  I  remember  the  day  when  Mr.  Belknap  came 
to  see  me  about  the  possibility  of  getting  aid  from 


io4         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

the  law  in  his  fight  with  his  big  competitor  which 
has  been  officially  declared  not  to  be  a  wicked 
"trust."  This  was  shortly  after  my  father's  death, 
when  I  was  trying  to  keep  myself  from  seeking  any 
aid  from  my  father-in-law — yet  feeling  that  I  could 
not  let  my  pride  hold  me  back  much  longer. 

The  revelation  of  Mr.  Belknap's  business  situation 
disposed  of  any  thought  of  aid  from  that  source.  He 
was  moderately  wealthy,  but  every  dollar  he  could 
raise  was  being  used  in  the  life  or  death  struggle 
either  to  remain  in  business  as  an  independent  manu 
facturer,  or  else  to  force  his  great  and  ruthless  com 
petitor  to  buy  him  out  at  a  fair  price.  In  the  course 
of  this  business  battle  there  was  considerable  work 
for  a  lawyer,  so  that  I  did  earn  some  good  fees. 
Eventually  a  deal  was  made  whereby  my  father-in- 
law  was  saved  from  financial  ruin.  But  with  his 
health  undermined  he  has  been  forced  to  retire  from 
active  business  upon  an  income  which  is  not  really 
sufficient  for  his  needs. 

It  has  happened  therefore  that  in  my  two  years  of 
effort  to  take  care  of  two  families,  I  have  had  to 
carry  the  load  practically  alone.  One  or  two  friends 
have  aided  me  temporarily  in  difficult  places  and  I 
have  had  some  good  luck  in  making  and  collecting  a 
few  exceptional  fees  just  in  time  to  prevent  the  ruin 
of  such  credit  as  I  command.  On  the  whole  I  have 
been  able  to  keep  going  by  plodding,  persistent  work 
day  in,  day  out,  supplemented  by  extra  hours  in  the 
evening  at  my  office  or  at  home.  I  have  cleaned  up 
every  old  case  in  the  office,  working  desperately  to 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         105 

finish  as  much  business  as  quickly  as  possible,  so  as 
to  get  in  every  fee  which  would  satisfy  the  obliga 
tions  that  somehow  must  be  met.  Besides  taking 
care  of  mother  and  father  and  Mary  and  myself, 
there  was  a  year,  while  George,  my  younger  brother, 
was  finishing  his  college  course,  in  which  the  family 
burden  was  heavier  than  now. 

Edna,  my  sister,  who  had  spent  several  years  pre 
paring  for  a  musical  career,  gave  up  her  studies  with 
considerable  alacrity  and  announced  her  intention  of 
helping  to  nurse  father.  The  exact  amount  of  aid 
which  she  has  given  to  my  overworked  mother  is 
hardly  worth  estimation.  I  can,  however,  certify  to 
the  fact  that  she  has  provided  me  with  a  peculiarly 
distressing  problem.  To  a  young  lawyer  seeking  to 
support  a  bed-ridden  father,  a  mother,  a  wife,  a 
brother  finishing  college  and  himself,  the  additional 
expense  of  an  able-bodied  young  woman  of  cultivated 
tastes,  has  seemed  quite  large  and  somewhat  unjusti 
fiable. 

Musically  Edna  has  no  talent  above  the  level  of 
comic  opera.  To  advise  her  to  get  a  job  as  a  chorus 
girl  would  have  indicated  a  callous  unbrotherly  at 
titude  toward  her  probable  future.  With  her  luxu 
rious  desires  and  somewhat  reckless  spirit  her  failure 
in  self-support  would  have  been  practically  assured, 
unless  she  should  have  achieved  a  certain  apparent 
success  that  would  have  been  equally  distressing.  I 
could  not  suggest  any  other  employment  with  any 
hope  of  satisfactory  results. 

"My  private  opinion,"  confessed  my  mother,  "is 


io6         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

that  Edna  will  probably  marry  Mr.  Guernsey,  that 
young  stockbroker,  you  know,  who  paid  her  so  much 
attention  last  winter.  She  didn't  encourage  him  then 
very  much,  because  she  was  fascinated  with  that 
crazy  Hammersmith  man  who  was  always  at  least 
half  drunk." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  I  answered.  "She  was  going 
to  reform  him.  She  said  he  had  such  a  brilliant 
mind,  and  he  thought  she  was  so  original.  They 
were  a  good  mutual  admiration  society.  Neither  of 
them  has  any  common  sense.  Thank  heaven,  he 
has  gone  to  California.  Is  this  Guernsey  person  any 
better?" 

"Oh,  he's  really  a  very  nice  young  man — a  little 
superficial,  but  he's  young." 

"I  wouldn't  expect  Edna  to  attract  any  two-ton 
intellect,"  I  suggested  grumpily.  "Of  course,  I  can't 
play  the  matchmaking  game.  I'll  leave  that  to  you, 
mummie.  I  don't  want  to  send  sister  out  to  stalk  a 
husband.  Furthermore,  it's  hard  for  a  brother  to 
see  why  anyone  should  want  to  marry  his  sister. 
But  although  she  doesn't  seem  to  me  very  well  fitted 
to  be  a  wife,  I  guess  she's  better  equipped  to  be  a 
wife  than  anything  else.  The  chances  are  also  that 
she'll  capture  some  man  who  isn't  trained  to  be  a 
husband;  so  it  won't  be  an  unfair  bargain.  They'll 
both  be  stung.  I  suppose  the  best  thing  I  can  do  for 
her  is  to  supply  her  with  clothes  and  carfare  and  let 
her  go  out  on  the  trail." 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  disappointed  in 
Edna,"  said  mother,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "but  re- 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         107 

member  she  is  young.  She  will  settle  down.  I  only 
hope  she  meets  the  right  man." 

"If  she  does  she'll  be  the  wrong  girl,"  was  my 
moody  response. 

So  Edna  played  at  being  the  daughter  of  ease 
while  I  counted  the  outgoing  dollars  and  tried  not 
to  feel  mercenarily  hopeful  whenever  mother  re 
ported  a  new  "heart  interest."  A  few  months  ago, 
just  as  the  Guernsey  attentions  were  wearing  a  cheer 
fully  serious  aspect,  that  "Wild  Bill"  Hammersmith 
returned  to  Chicago.  He  hadn't  taken  a  drink  in 
three  weeks,  he  averred,  and  he  felt  sure  that  if 
Edna  would  marry  him  and  go  back  with  him  to 
California,  where  he  had  an  interest  in  a  prune 
business,  or  something  of  the  sort,  he  would  settle 
down  to  a  virtuous  and  prosperous  existence. 

I  was  skeptical  about  this  sudden  reform  but  Edna 
had  no  doubt  of  her  great  and  saving  influence;  and 
mother's  reforming  instincts  rallied  to  her  daughter's 
support.  They  married.  Edna  is  living  in  Cali 
fornia.  "Wild  Bill"  is  sober  intermittently  and  con 
tributes  at  intervals  to  her  support.  At  other  times 
she  calls  on  me  and  I  send  half  what  she  asks  for 
and  postpone  the  payment  of  some  of  my  less  stale 
bills.  I  must  admit  she  is  costing  a  little  less  married 
and  away  than  when  single  and  at  home.  So  I  sup 
pose  I  should  feel  a  limited  gratitude  to  Hammer 
smith. 

George  is  through  college  and  already  earning  a 
part  of  what  he  spends.  He  "borrows"  the  balance 
from  me — and  I  enjoy  a  faint  hope  that  some  day 


io8         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

these  loans  may  be  repaid,  in  a  time  of  special  need. 
I  have  cast  a  good  deal  of  bread  on  the  waters  in 
recent  months.  I  am  afraid  most  of  it  will  be 
pretty  soggy  from  long  immersion  before  the  day 
of  its  prophesied  return. 

As  I  sit  writing  to-day,  looking  back  over  a 
wretched  two  years,  uncertain  of  the  future  and  yet 
somehow  confident  that,  with  so  many  apparently 
impossible  tasks  accomplished,  the  comparatively 
ordinary  difficulties  that  are  before  me  can  be  over 
come,  my  thought  lingers  on  a  black  night  many 
months  ago.  Everything  had  gone  wrong  that  day. 
I  had  lost  an  important  case.  A  client  owing  a  large 
bill  had  written  that  he  would  try  to  pay  half  of  it 
the  next  month.  I  had  a  note  due  the  following  day 
at  the  bank.  I  had  added  up  nearly  a  thousand  dol 
lars  of  pressing  bills  that  must  be  paid  immediately. 
The  mortgage  interest  on  mother's  vacant  and  un 
salable  house  was  three  days  overdue.  I  had  come 
home  with  frayed  nerves  and  a  discouraged  spirit. 
Mary  was  sick  and  harassed  with  household  troubles. 
We  had  quarreled  quite  bitterly.  She  had  gone  to 
bed.  I  sat  alone  and  tried  to  find  some  reason  for 
wanting  to  remain  alive.  Somehow  I  could  not  even 
take  a  morbid  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  suicide. 

If  I  were  dead  what  would  happen  to  mother  and 
Mary  and  Edna — and  George?  Well,  brother  and 
sister  could  or  should  take  care  of  themselves.  Per 
haps  Mr.  Belknap  could  do  something  for  Mary. 
But  that  was  my  job.  I  had  no  business  handing  her 
back  to  him.  He  was  broken  in  health  and  over- 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         109 

burdened.  Then  there  was  mother.  There  was  no 
one  to  take  care  of  her.  It  would  mean  for  her  a 
miserable  ending  to  a  pretty  hard  life.  No,  I  could 
not  even  contemplate  the  cowardly  relief  of  ending 
my  own  life.  I  had  to  go  through. 

But,  I  thought,  there  must  be  some  purpose  in  this 
dreadful  mess  of  work  and  pain  and  worry.  The 
purpose  of  my  life  cannot  be  merely  to  keep  a  few 
other  lives  out  of  the  worst  of  wretchedness.  There 
must  be  some  individual  purpose.  I  began  to  think 
of  old  speculations  and  discussions  of  God  the 
Builder.  What  was  being  built  with  me — or  in  me? 
What  would  be  built  out  of  my  humiliations,  my 
shame,  out  of  the  collapse  of  my  worldly  pretenses 
of  position  and  ability — if  to-morrow  I  defaulted 
payments,  was  sued,  became  notoriously  insolvent, 
had  to  give  up  my  offices,  accept  some  minor  posi 
tion  and  then  struggle  along  for  months  or  years 
trying  just  to  provide  meager  food  and  clothing  and 
shelter  for  those  who  had  relied  on  me — who  had 
been  proud  of  me — once? 

Why  must  I  go  through  this  torture  ? 

Then  all  at  once  it  came  to  me  that  my  torture 
was  self-torture.  In  plain  fact,  no  matter  what  hap 
pened,  probably  I  could  provide  a  minimum  of  com 
fort  for  those  dependent  on  me,  and  for  myself.  We 
would  not  suffer  physically,  unless  further  misfor 
tune  assailed  us.  My  anticipated  pain  would  be 
mental  suffering.  But  suppose  that  I  held  my  head 
erect  and  said  to  myself,  and  that  through  my  eyes  I 
said  to  all  the  world:  I  didn't  weaken;  I  didn't  give 


i  io         GETTING    AND    SPENDING 

up;  I  did  the  best  I  could;  I  did  all  that  I  could;  I'm 
sorry  I  failed  but  I'm  not  ashamed. 

Suddenly  my  tired,  snarled  brain  became  clear 
and  refreshed.  I  had  discovered  a  truth — old  as 
creation,  yet  new  to  me, — new  to  anyone  who  has 
only  read  it,  but  who  has  never  known  it,  never  un 
derstood  its  meaning  in  himself.  I  had  realized  that 
no  one  except  me  could  touch  my  soul.  No  one 
could  impress  a  single  phase  of  good  or  evil  upon 
that  soul  of  mine,  but  me.  When  men  sneered  at  me 
it  would  not  hurt  unless  I  carried  the  sneer  on  into 
my  soul — and  sneered  at  myself. 

I  thought  of  how  men  reverenced  that  imperturb 
able  soul  untouched  by  the  revilings  and  scorn  of  the 
rabble, — that  soul  behind  the  lips  that  said:  "Father 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 
And  then  I  understood  how  any  man  who  held  his 
soul  within  himself  could  march  ahead  to  carry  out 
the  purpose  of  his  being — wounded,  scarred,  dis 
figured — perhaps — but  never  beaten.  I  realized 
that  it  is  only  when  a  man  throws  down  the  protec 
tion  of  his  own  will  and  yields  his  soul  into  the 
hands  of  others, — that  he  can  suffer  the  agony  of 
real  defeat. 

I  remembered  that  I  had  read  a  poem  long  before 
which  had  expressed  that  idea,  although  I  had  not 
really  understood  it  at  that  time.  I  hunted  it  up 
and  read  it  over  and  over  again  until  I  felt  the  words 
had  been  engraved  so  deeply  in  my  mind  that  I  would 
never  lose  the  thought.  I  can  quote  it  now  from 
memory : 


GETTING    AND    SPENDING         in 


SALVATION 

Let  me  but  hold  my  soul — 

Though  stripped  of  pride  and  naked  in  its  shame, 

Blotted  my  name  upon  the  scroll 

Of  passing  honor  and  what  men  call  fame. 

Let  me  but  hold  my  soul — 

Still  warm  within  the  scarred  and  withered  flesh 

And  no  cracked  evening  bell  shall  toll 

For  me  the  end — when  I  set  forth  afresh. 

Let  me  but  hold  my  soul — 

And  I  shall  find  in  every  lie  its  truth, 

In  broken  things  the  secret  whole, 

In  gray  and  haggard  age,  oncoming  youth. 

Let  me  but  hold  my  soul — 

Though  naught  of  faith  and  hope  and  love  be  true — 

Steadfast,  let  me  but  hold  my  soul! 

Beyond  the  last,  lost  cause  I  shall  win  through !     • 

I  have  repeated  those  lines  to  myself  in  many  dis 
tressing  situations  during  the  last  year.  They  may 
not  be  good  poetry  but  they  have  been  good  medicine 
for  me.  They  carried  me  through  my  darkest  hour. 
They  have  given  me  a  new  sort  of  courage — a  cer 
tain  impenetrable  pride  in  my  own  being  and  its  pur 
pose  that  I  hope  may  stay  with  me  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  X 

OPPORTUNITIES 

THREE  years  have  passed  since  I  have  written 
down  anything  about  myself.     I  have  fought 
my  way  up  out  of  the  chasm  of  debt  into  a 
comparatively  secure  place.      It  begins  to  look  as 
though  I  might  make  something  worth  while  out  of 
my  life,   something  sufficiently  notable  to  give  my 
story  some  day  an  interest  to  someone  besides  my 
self.     With  this  hopeful  thought  I  take  up  my  writ 
ing  again. 

Just  about  the  time  I  was  emerging  from  insolv 
ency  two  temptations  came  to  me.  I  resisted  the 
worthier  and  yielded  to  the  less  worthy — yet  strange 
to  say  it  seems  that  I  did  right.  Surely  the  issues 
of  right  and  wrong  are  difficult  to  determine. 

My  first  temptation  came  in  an  offer  to  join  a 
group  of  congenial  enthusiasts  who  were  about  to 
launch  a  new  magazine.  They  had  secured  a  sub 
stantial  money  backing  and  their  program  for  The 
Liberal  appealed  greatly  to  me.  The  editorial  posi 
tion  offered  carried  a  fair  salary  for  the  support  of 
one  family.  I  could  write  as  I  believed,  travel,  in 
vestigate  interesting  questions,  feel  that  I  was  a 
useful  force  in  shaping  public  opinion.  I  could  have 

112 


OPPORTUNITIES  113 

a  good  time  and  do  something  which  seemed  worth 
doing. 

What  I  could  do  was  amply  satisfying.  It  was 
what  I  could  not  do  that  stopped  me.  I  could  not 
provide  those  whom  my  income  supported  with  the 
amount  of  comfort  which  they  felt  to  be  necessary. 
Family  expenses  must  be  cut  in  half.  I  must  shut 
my  ears  to  the  demands  of  all  except  my  wife  and 
my  mother.  I  must  give  up  the  struggle  to  save 
some  of  mother's  debt-burdened  property;  cease 
straining  to  fulfill  old  obligations  of  my  father.  In 
short  I  must  start  life  afresh — and  primarily  for 
myself.  I  was  convinced  that  this  was  my  right. 
Here  was  a  chance  to  throw  aside  the  drudging  legal 
work  I  detested  and  take  up  the  joyous  labor  of  self- 
expression. 

Someone  once  wrote,  "the  curse  of  the  world  is 
joyless  labor."  I  think  it  was  Elbert  Hubbard.  It 
is  a  profound  truth.  My  opportunity  had  come  to 
escape  from  this  curse.  Yet  somehow  I  could  not 
open  the  prison  door.  To  free  myself  I  must  im 
prison  those  whose  freedom  depended  on  my  slavery. 
Desire  whispered  to  me  that  I  might  make  a  great 
success  and  do  more  for  those  dependent  on  me  by 
following  my  inclinations.  But  worldly  wisdom  re 
futed  the  sophistry  of  desire.  I  knew  that  I  could 
make  more  money  by  continuing  to  practice  law. 

My  final  decision  was  not  heroic.  Perhaps  it  was 
dictated  by  cowardice.  Perhaps  I  feared  the  hazard 
of  a  change.  I  know  that  the  motives  in  every  hard 
decision  are  manifold.  The  eulogist  may  select  the 


n4  OPPORTUNITIES 

higher  reason;  the  detractor  may  point  out  the 
lower;  the  candid  biographer  should  list  them  all. 
In  my  case  I  did  not  boldly  renounce  or  accept.  I 
procrastinated  and  while  I  wavered  the  opportunity 
faded  until  I  summoned  up  the  courage  to  turn  my 
back  on  it  and  say  to  myself:  It  is  gone.  A  little 
later  when  I  glanced  around  for  one  last  look  I 
found  that  in  truth  it  was  gone. 

The  second  temptation  followed  swiftly  and  I 
yielded  to  it  the  more  readily  because  I  felt  I  had 
just  sacrificed  my  heart's  desire  and  thus  had  puri 
fied  motives  that  might  otherwise  have  seemed  ques 
tionable.  For  several  days  the  newspapers  had  been 
discussing  an  impending  conflict  between  the  govern 
ment  and  railroads.  Preparations  were  under  way 
for  a  joint  demand  by  the  transcontinental  roads  for 
increased  freight  rates  in  the  middle  west.  Power 
ful  shipping  interests  had  brought  pressure  on  sev 
eral  state  governments  to  organize  an  opposition. 
After  an  imposing  inter-state  conference  it  had  been 
determined  that  a  committee  of  lawyers  should  be 
formed  to  represent  the  principal  states  concerned, 
in  the  forthcoming  hearings  before  the  Interstate 
Commerce  Commission  in  Washington.  It  was 
generally  assumed  that  political  influence  rather  than 
legal  ability  would  determine  the  choice  of  the 
lawyer  who  would  represent  Illinois  and  earn  the 
large  fees  and  obtain  the  wide  advertising  attaching 
to  the  job. 

It  had  occurred  to  me  that  possibly  I  might 
maneuver  for  employment  as  an  assistant  counsel  in 


OPPORTUNITIES  115 

this  matter.  Jack  Emmet  was  very  influential  with 
the  governor  and  the  "Big  Boy"  had  been  particu 
larly  friendly  to  me  ever  since  my  father's  death. 
They  had  had  a  respectful  liking  for  each  other, 
despite  many  noisy  disagreements.  In  days  long 
past  when  father  was  a  major  political  power  and 
the  "Big  Boy"  was  fighting  his  way  up  from  the 
toughest  ward  in  the  city,  father  had  done  him  sev 
eral  small  but  valuable  services.  Part  of  the  "Big 
Boy's"  creed  was  that  every  favor  carried  with  it 
an  obligation  of  repayment.  During  father's  brief 
illness,  he  had  insisted  on  visiting  him  and  had  been 
his  only  visitor  from  outside  the  family  group. 

Father  always  took  an  exorbitant  pride  in  any 
accomplishment  of  mine.  I  suspect  his  over-warm 
praise  of  my  efforts  touched  the  sentimental  side  of 
the  "Big  Boy,"  whose  own  chief  pride  lay  in  his 
college-educated  son.  At  any  rate  he  was  unduly 
cordial  to  me  thereafter  and  seemed  really  desirous 
of  giving  me  a  boost  whenever  there  was  an  easy 
opportunity. 

Such  was  the  situation  one  hot  July  day  when 
Pillar  Grayson  came  into  my  office.  Grayson  is  a 
character  worthy  of  description  for  his  own  sake, 
aside  from  the  large  influence  he  has  exercised  on  my 
life.  His  father,  a  Methodist  minister,  had  named 
him  Pillar,  in  the  hope,  I  believe,  that  he  would  be 
a  stalwart  support  of  the  House  of  the  Lord — in 
which  hope  he  must  have  been  sorely  disappointed. 
Pillar's  chief  assets  in  life  have  been  a  rugged  phy 
sique,  an  imaginative  mind,  perpetual  good  humor 


n6  OPPORTUNITIES 

and  a  genius  for  making  friends.  In  college  he  was 
a  great  athlete  and  a  leader  in  all  forms  of  student 
life.  He  jogged  through  law  school  and  jollied  his 
way  into  a  semi-political  law  business,  out  of  which 
he  might  have  become  wealthy  except  for  his  incor 
rigible  generosity.  He  divided  his  Jarge  fees  .".-eely 
with  associates  who  contributed  in  small  measure  to 
the  results  accomplished  through  his  ingenuity  and 
popularity. 

As  he  sprawled  in  a  chair  on  the  client  side  of 
my  flat-top  desk,  I  marveled  again  at  his  persistent 
youthfulness.  He  must  be  a  little  over  fifty.  His 
dark  hair  is  very  gray,  but  luxuriant.  His  smooth- 
shaven  face  has  the  pink  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  His 
gray  eyes  sparkle  and  his  laugh  rings  out,  as  he  il 
luminates  what  might  be  a  dull  business  talk  with  his 
radiant  humor.  No  wonder  men  like  to  work  with 
him.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  him  around.  He  has 
thrown  off  his  coat  and  he  slaps  his  billowing  shirt 
front. 

"Getting  fat,"  he  chuckles.  "Haven't  played  but 
three  games  of  golf  this  year.  But  in  August, — 
oh  boy,  how  I  am  going  to  punish  that  evasive  little 
pill!" 

"What  do  you  go  around  in?"  I  inquire. 

"In  a  pair  of  knickerbockers  that  my  wife  bought 
me,"  he  parries.  "She  thinks  I  have  such  handsome 
legs.  I'm  not  telling  my  scores  yet.  I'll  come  in 
and  brag  to  you  at  the  end  of  August.  What  do 
you  know  about  the  Mid-West  rate  case?  I  hear 
you  are  going  to  be  Special  Counsel  for  Illinois." 


OPPORTUNITIES  117 

"Your  hearing  is  better  than  mine.  I  haven't 
heard  such  a  thing  even  whispered." 

"Well  I'm  shouting  it  now.  It's  my  job,  really, 
but  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you." 

Thereupon  my  entertaining  visitor  proceeded  to 
unfold  a  political  plot  and  to  present  me  with  my 
second  temptation — the  one  I  did  not  resist. 

It  seemed  that  Grayson  had  arranged  the  political 
cards  so  that  he  would  be  named  Special  Counsel  in 
the  rate  case.  He  had  been  a  railroad  attorney  a 
decade  before,  but  had  differed  so  bitterly  with  the 
attitude  of  his  employers  toward  the  public  that  he 
had  been  forced  to  resign.  Since  then  he  had  been 
representing  shippers'  organizations  and  had  fought 
their  battles  against  the  railroads  with  much  success. 
Naturally,  when  the  railroad  politicians  had  received 
advance  information  of  Grayson's  plan,  they  had 
pulled  every  wire  to  keep  him  out  of  this  case.  They 
had  finally  obtained  assurances  from  the  Governor 
that  their  most  feared  antagonist  would  not  be 
chosen  to  represent  Illinois. 

"But  I  intend  to  be  there  just  the  same,"  said  he, 
banging  his  fist  down  on  my  desk,  "and  that's  why 
I've  come  to  you.  That  appointment  is  going  to  be 
decided  by  the  Governor,  Jack  Emmet  and  "Cash" 
Pulsifer.  You  know  Pulsifer?  No?  Well,  he 
won't  count  much  anyhow.  The  Governor  is  really 
for  me  but  he's  committed  against  me.  I've  sug 
gested  that  he  might  choose  you  and,  if  Emmet  ap 
proves  of  you,  he'll  do  it.  Then  he  wouldn't  be  very 


ii8  OPPORTUNITIES 

much  shocked  if  you  should  choose  me  as  your 
associate  counsel." 

Grayson  winked  elaborately  as  he  thus  exposed 
his  plan  to  beat  the  railroad  lobby. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Emmet  would  go  that  far 
for  me,"  I  suggested.  "He  has  offered  several  times 
to  help  me  in  any  way  that  he  could,  but  this  is 
going  a  long  way.  It's  a  pretty  big  job  to  present 
to  a  political  nonentity  like  me." 

"Emmet  will  be  all  right  if  you  ask  him,"  declared 
Grayson  with  his  customary  positiveness.  Pillar 
was  a  perpetual  optimist.  He  always  assumed  the 
best  and  his  very  confidence  bred  confidence  in  those 
he  sought  to  convince. 

"Here's  the  game,"  he  continued.  "The  Middle 
West  Shippers'  Association  wants  me  in  this  case. 
They're  a  strong  crowd,  but  I  told  them  how  the 
roads  had  blocked  me.  Emmet  wants  to  please 
them.  Now  you  see  Emmet  and  tell  him  that  the 
shippers  will  be  satisfied  if  you  are  chosen.  Mean 
while,  I'll  see  them  and  fix  things  so  that  they'll  tell 
Emmet  you  are  the  man  they  want.  Don't  mention 
my  name  to  Emmet.  Just  tell  him  that  the  shippers 
want  you.  It's  a  cinch,  Rodney.  We  can  put  it  over 
before  the  railroad  crowd  knows  what's  happening. 
But  we  must  work  fast.  Emmet  is  going  down  to 
Springfield  to  meet  the  Governor  and  Pulsifer  to 
morrow  night.  Is  it  a  go?" 

"Then  if  I  get  the  job,  I  appoint  you  as  associate 
counsel — is  that  the  play?" 


OPPORTUNITIES  119 

"That's  the  idea — provided,  of  course,  you  think 
I'm  competent,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

"Oh,  you're  the  best  man  in  the  state  for  this 
work,"  I  answered.  "That  doesn't  bother  me.  But 
I  do  hate  to  go  to  Emmet.  He  doesn't  do  favors 
for  nothing.  There  will  be  an  implied  obligation  for 
me  to  do  something  for  him  in  return — even  if  he 
doesn't  demand  some  express  promise  from  me." 

"Cross  that  bridge  when  you  get  to  it,"  he  sug 
gested.  "This  is  too  good  a  chance  for  both  of  us 
to  worry  about  what  Emmet  may  expect.  Don't 
forget:  he  won't  do  it  for  you.  He'll  be  working 
for  his  friends,  the  shippers.  Let  him  look  to  them 
for  return  favors." 

After  much  talk  and  after  stifling  many  misgiv 
ings  I  agreed  to  go  to  see  Emmet.  To  those  un 
acquainted  with  the  mysterious  atmosphere  of  prac 
tical  politics  it  may  seem  strange  that  I  hesitated. 
But  politics  is  a  peculiar  business  involving  many 
unspoken  promises  and  unwritten  obligations. 
When  you  ask  a  politician  for  help  you  may  not 
agree,  or  even  discuss,  how  you  will  pay  for  the 
favor,  but  he  expects  payment  of  equal  value  to  be 
made  sometime.  The  man  who  accepts  aid  and  then 
refuses  to  "come  across"  when  he  is  called  upon  is 
soon  classed  with  the  card  player  who  does  not  pay 
his  debts.  Men  who  know  him  will  not  play  with 
him. 

If  Jack  Emmet  obtained  this  appointment  for  me 
he  would  feel  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  exercise 
some  control  over  my  conduct  of  the  work.  For  my 


120  OPPORTUNITIES 

part  I  should  not  acknowledge  any  right  in  him  to 
interfere  with  any  action  which  I  felt  necessary  to 
protect  my  client,  the  public.  Perhaps  he  would 
never  ask  me  to  do  anything  that  I  would  feel  to 
be  improper.  But  I  was  fearful.  Knowing  how  far 
apart  our  ethical  standards  were,  and  considering 
the  many  ways  in  which  he  might  think  he  could 
profit  by  controlling  one  of  the  attorneys  in  this  im 
portant  case,  I  could  see  many  chances  for  violent 
disagreement  with  the  "Big  Boy"  if  I  obtained  this 
job  through  his  favor. 

The  "pure  young  man"  of  my  college  days  would 
have  resisted  Grayson's  temptation.  But  the  man 
of  more  than  ten  years  later,  plodding  along  an  up 
hill  road  pulling  the  load  of  two  families,  did  not 
feel  that  he  could  afford  the  mental  luxuries  of 
earlier  days.  I  was  forced  to  estimate  my  own  value 
less  as  a  man,  in  order  that  it  might  be  greater  as 
a  draught  horse.  My  final  judgment  was  not  cynical 
but  it  had  a  bitter  flavor. 

"It  appears  to  me,"  I  explained,  "that  I  am  to 
persuade  Jack  Emmet  that  it  is  to  his  advantage  to 
give  me  a  good  job;  and  then  having  obtained  the 
job,  I  must  see  to  it  that  Emmet  obtains  no  advan 
tage.  Sounds  like  a  confidence  game,  doesn't  it?" 

"Not  at  all,"  roared  Grayson.  "The  day  you  put 
over  a  confidence  game  on  the  'Big  Boy'  you  can 
hang  your  hat  in  the  Hall  of  Fame.  I  tell  you  he 
won't  lift  a  finger  for  you.  He'll  only  do  this  for 
the  shippers.  He'll  have  no  right  to  claim  that  he 
did  a  thing  for  your  sake." 


OPPORTUNITIES  121 

"I'm  going  to  make  sure  of  that,  anyhow,"  I 
answered.  "Pillar,  I  think  you  are  a  very  tempting 
devil  and  I'm  going  to  say:  'Get  thee  behind  me 
Satan;  you  push  and  I'll  pull;  and  if  we  win,  asso 
ciate  counsel  shall  be  your  name!'  When  shall  I 
go  to  see  Emmet?" 

"Not  before  to-morrow,"  he  said  jumping  up  and 
seizing  his  hat.  "I'll  see  my  shippers  this  afternoon. 
Bye!  Bye!" 

My  little  strategy  to  test  the  extent  of  the  "Big 
Boy's"  affection  for  me  was  quite  successful.  I  met 
him  at  the  club  after  lunch  and  drew  him  away  to 
a  quiet  corner. 

"Is  there  any  chance  that  I  might  be  considered 
as  attorney  for  the  state  in  that  Mid-West  rate 
case?"  I  inquired  bluntly.  "I  have  some  friends 
who  would  back  me  for  the  position  if  it  were  worth 
while  to  ask  them.  You  know  I've  a  big  burden  to 
carry  since  my  father's  death  and  I'd  appreciate  any 
encouragement  you  could  give  me." 

"My  boy,"  he  said  very  solemnly,  "I'd  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  I  could  for  you — for  your  own 
sake  as  well  as  for  your  father's."  He  actually 
simulated  sufficient  emotion  to  bring  a  faint  mist  over 
his  wise  little  eyes.  "But  you  see  the  Governor  has 
his  mind  already  made  up  on  this  matter.  He  hasn't 
told  me  yet  whom  he  is  going  to  choose  but,  con 
fidentially,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  know  it  is  a  certain 
man  that  the  Shippers'  Association  has  suggested. 
You  see  the  Governor  wants  to  stand  well  with  the 
shippers.  I  wish  I  could  help  you.  There's  no  one 


122  OPPORTUNITIES 

I'd  sooner  see  have  the  job.  But  I  know  I  couldn't 
do  it.  The  Governor  wouldn't  listen  to  me." 

"Well  now  that's  very  important  news  to  me,"  I 
answered,  trying  to  appear  quite  naive  and  feeling 
very  foolish,  "because  I  just  heard  to-day  that  some 
of  the  big  men  in  the  Shippers'  Association  are  for 
me.  If  I  could  get  them  to  speak  to  the  Governor, 
don't  you  think  that  would  help?" 

The  "Big  Boy"  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a 
very  long  minute.  His  eyes  were  almost  shut.  He 
had  the  appearance  of  a  man  thinking  rapidly  and  a 
trifle  afraid  that  his  thoughts  might  become  visible. 
Then  he  spoke  very  slowly. 

"If  you  have  some  friends  among  the  shippers  it 
is  barely  possible  that  something  might  be  done,  al 
though  you  have  come  to  me  pretty  late.  You  had 
better  let  me  find  out  if  this  man  I  mentioned  has 
all  the  shippers  back  of  him.  If  they  are  not  too 
deeply  committed  I  might  do  something.  You  know 
I'd  be  glad  to  help  you  if  I  could." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  started  across  the  room. 

"There  is  a  man  I  want  to  see,"  he  tossed  back 
over  his  shoulder.  "I'll  telephone  you  later  in  the 
afternoon  if  I  have  any  news." 

An  hour  afterward  he  called  me  on  the  'phone. 

"Drop  over  and  see  me  about  four-thirty";  his 
voice  was  very  friendly. 

Pillar  Grayson  is  a  smooth  worker.  Jack  Emmet 
claims  full  credit  for  my  appointment  as  Special 
Counsel.  But  I  do  not  feel  that  my  obligation  to 
him  is  oppressively  heavy. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FAMILY  SECRETS 

MY  intimate  friends  have  been  puzzled  to  un 
derstand  why  the  honor  and  profit  of  repre 
senting  the  state  in  the  now  famous  Mid- 
West  rate  case  came  into  my  unworthy  hands.  They 
have  been  still  more  puzzled  to  understand  why,  as 
the  sensational  hearings  in  Washington  progressed, 
the  young  and  comparatively  unknown  Rodney  Mer 
rill  took  such  a  prominent  part  in  the  proceedings. 
Being  unable  to  justify  this  as  the  result  of  any  ex 
ceptional  legal  ability  they  have  finally  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  I  had  a  desire  for  the  spotlight 
not  shared  by  other  more  eminent  attorneys  engaged 
in  the  same  case  and  that  I  have  exceptional  capacity 
for  self-advertising. 

The  true  explanation  for  the  surprising  publicity 
which  my  work  received  was  much  simpler  than  this. 
I  found  myself  associated  with  a  group  of  older 
lawyers,  none  of  whom  had  given  any  special  study 
to  the  questions  presented  and  all  of  whom  were 
much  more  concerned  with  other  business  than  with 
this  one  case.  On  the  other  hand  I  had  given  several 
years'  special  study  to  the  problems  involved  in  this 
hearing  and,  seeing  the  great  opportunity  which  the 

123 


124  FAMILY  SECRETS 

situation  offered  me,  I  sacrificed  all  other  work  to 
the  one  purpose  of  making  this  fight  successful. 
Furthermore,  Grayson,  although  occupied  with  many 
other  matters,  gave  invaluable  advice  and  immediate 
aid  at  every  critical  time.  With  his  customary  gen 
erosity  he  was  always  willing  that  the  major  credit 
for  our  joint  operations  should  be  given  to  me. 

It  would  be  tiresome  to  recount  the  detail  of  this 
long-drawn  out  controversy.  To  me  it  is  a  romance ; 
but  if  I  tried  to  translate  the  technique  of  a  lawsuit 
into  a  story  that  would  interest  laymen  I  am  sure  I 
should  be  less  interesting  than  my  medical  friends 
who  endeavor,  with  such  wasted  enthusiasm,  to  excite 
me  with  tales  of  the  wars  of  the  wicked  streptococci 
and  the  noble  anti-toxins. 

There  were,  however,  scattered  dramatic  events 
that  might  serve  to  give  some  indication  of  the  char 
acter  of  the  fighting  waged  by  my  opponents.  One 
of  these  seems  worth  relating,  not  merely  for  its 
own  sake,  but  also  because  it  involves  the  intimate 
beginning  of  my  acquaintance  with  a  woman  who 
may  affect  profoundly  my  future.  In  order  to  repre 
sent  fairly  my  attitude  toward  Irma  Conway  and  to 
give  an  understanding  of  the  place  she  has  come  to 
fill  in  my  life  I  must  write  quite  frankly  regarding 
Mary  and  me  as  a  married  couple.  Certainly  I  do 
not  expect  anything  that  I  write  down  to  be  pub 
lished — if  at  all — while  either  for  us  is  living,  so 
why  should  I  not  be  honest  with  anyone  who  may 
take  an  interest  in  my  story? 

Perhaps  I  should  explain  that  I  have  no  sympathy 


FAMILY  SECRETS  125 

with  the  sentimentality  that  would  draw  a  veil  of 
secrecy,  or  a  tissue  of  pretty  lies,  over  the  lives  of 
the  dead.  Men  and  women  learn  from  experience 
and  from  knowledge  of  the  lives  of  other  men  and 
women.  To  tell  only  half  the  story  of  a  life  is  to 
lie  about  it  and  to  sin  most  grievously  against  one's 
fellows.  The  writing  of  veneered  and  varnished 
lives  of  the  great  is  part  and  parcel  of  that  false 
education  whereby  children  are  told  that  storks  bring 
babies,  youths  are  told  that  passion  is  indecent,  and 
finally  adults  are  told  that  an  error  in  selecting  a 
mate  is  irremediable  and  any  effort  to  repair  the 
error  is  the  commission  of  an  unpardonable  sin. 

The  only  value  in  my  story  of  an  ordinary  man, 
who  has  enough  intelligence  to  know  that  he  is  not 
a  great  man,  must  be  found  in  the  educational  value 
to  others  of  a  true  story.  Truth  must  be  "the  whole 
truth."  I  shall  endeavor  not  to  offend  against  in 
telligent  good  taste,  but  I  shall  not  cover  up  impor 
tant  facts  merely  to  avoid  the  criticism  of  prudes 
and  prigs. 

Mary  and  I  have  done  far  better  in  the  difficult 
relationship  of  marriage  than  most  of  our  friends. 
We  get  more  comfort  and  pleasure  out  of  it  than 
discomfort  and  pain.  That's  doing  pretty  well. 
Some  of  our  friends  say  that  we  are  the  only  happy 
married  couple  they  know.  This  indicates  a  pre 
vailing  low  standard  of  happiness,  because  I  should 
describe  our  state  more  accurately  by  saying  that 
we  are  not  unhappy.  I  bore  Mary  somewhat  with 
business  detail  and  she  bores  me  somewhat  with 


126  FAMILY  SECRETS 

household  trivialities.  We  dance  together  well,  but 
without  enthusiasm.  We  dine  at  home  without 
argumentative  or  exhilarating  conversation,  quietly 
grateful  for  the  social  custom  that  separates  husband 
and  wife  when  they  dine  out. 

Mary  has  catalogued  my  mentality  and  I  have 
labeled  hers.  To  her  I  am  a  theorist  whose  con 
versation  is  fairly  interesting  except  upon  subjects 
in  which  she  has  a  personal  interest.  Then  I  am 
irritating.  To  me  her  ideas  are  safe,  sane  and  banal. 
I  know  her  opinions  in  advance  on  almost  all  ques 
tions  and  she  discounts  mine  before  they  are  ex 
pressed.  Thus  we  do  not  stimulate  each  other  men 
tally. 

In  the  matter  of  physical  attraction  we  have 
passed  through  the  period  of  romance  and  illusion 
and  have  only  the  normal  interest  of  a  healthy  male 
and  female  for  each  other.  This  is  a  somewhat 
comfortable  condition  from  my  point  of  view — or 
I  should  say  that  it  was,  until  I  met  Irma.  It  is 
unsatisfactory  to  Mary.  She  tells  me  that  a  woman's 
nature  craves  a  lover  and  that  a  devoted  husband 
should  remain  a  lover.  I  respond,  as  is  true,  that 
I  love  her  dearly,  but  that  without  attempting  the 
impossibility  of  continually  acting  a  part  I  cannot 
maintain  the  fervid  devotion  of  courtship.  She 
admits  that  I  am  fond  of  her  but  insists  that  I  do 
not  love  her.  I  find  it  impossible  to  corner  her  with 
an  admission  that  she  is  no  more  than  just  fond  of 
me.  She  always  qualifies  her  statement  with  the 
thought  that  the  subsidence  of  my  love  fever  is  re- 


FAMILY  SECRETS  127 

sponsible  for  the  negative  character  of  her  feeling 
toward  me. 

The  fact  is  that  Mary  and  I  have  "settled  down" 
and  we  are  both  young  enough  to  resent  this  pla 
cidity.  I  suppose  that  if  we  had  children  we  would 
accept  the  congealment  of  our  youth  more  gracefully. 
We  would  feel  a  joint  responsibility  toward  some 
thing  outside  ourselves.  Yet  our  married  friends 
with  children  do  not  escape  discontent.  The  most 
recent  divorce  in  our  acquaintance  concerns  a  woman 
of  twenty-nine  who  has  three  charming  children. 
She  wanted  them  and  she  loves  them.  But  she  has 
been  heard  to  remark  that  rather  than  bear  a  child 
every  two  years  for  twenty  years  she  would  desert 
the  best  man  on  earth.  A  sweet  old  grand-aunt 
informs  me  that  this  attitude  is  one  of  the  sad  results 
of  the  modern  over-education  of  women.  To  her 
faded  vision  the  desire  of  this  young  woman  to  culti 
vate  and  expand  and  exploit  her  own  personality, 
and  her  resentment  at  the  continual  necessity  of 
neglecting  her  own  growth  to  nourish  her  young — 
appears  all  wrong.  My  aunt  says  she  should  grow 
in  her  children.  Our  friend  answers  that  she  is  not 
growing;  that  she  is  going  to  seed  before  she  has 
attained  her  growth. 

I  have  been  rambling  around  this  question  because 
I  want  to  explain  my  conviction  that  the  whole 
trouble  with  Mary  and  me  does  not  arise  from  the 
lack  of  children.  In  truth  even  one  child  would 
add  so  to  my  staggering  load  that,  while  we  have 
hoped  for  one,  I,  particularly,  have  mingled  dread 


128  FAMILY  SECRETS 

with  my  hope.  My  responsibilities  to  adults  are 
wearing  enough.  An  obligation  to  a  helpless  child 
would  add  much  to  my  cares. 

Mary  and  I  had  a  typical  argument,  which  I  well 
remember  one  Sunday  afternoon.  We  had  attended 
church  that  morning.  Mary  likes  to  go  to  church, 
irregularly.  She  says  it  makes  her  feel  surer  men 
tally.  I  usually  object  to  going  to  church,  partially 
because  it  damages  my  religious  illusions.  The 
teachings  of  Christ  have  given  me  the  only  phi 
losophy  of  life  in  which  I  can  hold  faith.  His  Word 
comes  to  me  as  the  brightest  light  from  outside  my 
own  confusing  experience  of  life.  But  the  words 
of  most  of  the  ordained  preachers  of  official  truth 
disturb  and  irritate  me  with  triviality  of  reasoning, 
with  ignorance  or  ignoring  of  scientific  fact,  and  with 
dogmatic  assumption  of  wisdom  which  most  obvi 
ously  is  lacking.  They  "darken  knowledge." 

In  the  sermon  of  this  particular  Sunday  morning 
a  very  earnest  and  eloquent  clergyman  had  dis 
coursed  upon  the  frivolous  waste  of  life  in  pursuit 
of  pleasure.  Pulpit  attacks  on  the  leisure  class  are 
safe  and  popular.  The  financial  support  of  the 
churches  comes,  not  from  idlers  of  inherited  wealth, 
but  from  active  masters  of  industry,  whose  wealth 
depends  on  the  general  acceptance  of  a  philosophy 
that  those  who  live  dumbly  and  are  belabored  are 
the  salt  of  the  earth,  who  will  receive  their  reward 
hereafter.  Of  course  the  lowly  must  be  encouraged 
to  wait  for  the  profit  from  their  labors  until  after 
death  in  order  that  their  masters  may  use  this  profit 


FAMILY  SECRETS  129 

for  their  own  benefit  in  this  life.  It  is  the  problem 
of  a  minister  of  the  gospel  to  reconcile  this  working 
philosophy  with  the  doctrine  of  the  Son  of  Man  who 
said:  "Whosoever  will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him 
be  your  servant." 

The  reverend  Mr.  Falsinger  developed  eloquently 
the  contrast  between  the  childless  couple  spending 
their  evenings  in  bridge  or  at  the  theater,  or  in  the 
various  intoxications  of  wine,  women  and  song;  and 
on  the  other  hand  the  family  circle  where  father  and 
mother  and  "Sissy"  and  "Junior"  and  "Toots"  sit 
around  the  lamp  light.  The  contrast  grew  worse  as 
the  years  rolled  by.  Eventually  a  hardened  old 
sport  sat  in  his  lonely  club  room  while  a  thousand 
miles  away  a  querulous,  wrinkled,  painted  woman, 
who  was  once  his  wife,  quarreled  with  her  third  hus 
band  over  whether  to  go  to  Florida  or  California 
for  another  boresome  winter. 

In  contrast  to  this  picture  was  the  happy  fireside 
of  the  thrifty,  child-producing  couple,  with  the  oldest 
boy  home  from  college  and  the  oldest  girl  just  re 
turned  from  her  honeymoon  with  a  noble  son-in-law. 
There  was  a  sketch  of  younger  children  in  the  back 
ground,  and  grandchildren  anticipated,  a  thought 
suggested  as  delicately  indelicate  and  yet  felt  to  be 
quite  proper. 

Of  course,  there  are  large,  useful,  happy  families 
and  there  are  small,  useless,  unhappy  families.  The 
natural  and  most  surely  satisfying  family  includes 
children.  The  ideal  condition  is  obvious.  But  it 
happens  that  of  the  two  families  of  my  most  intimate 


130  FAMILY  SECRETS 

acquaintance,  the  childless  household  of  Mary  and 
me  is  a  far  more  sunny,  cheerful  place  than  the  child- 
crowded  household  in  which  I  was  reared.  Honest 
and  interesting  discussion  of  life  should  include 
something  beyond  the  normal  or  most  desirable. 
Also  I  insist  that  bridge-whist  is  a  keener,  better 
brain  developing  exercise  than  charades.  However, 
my  complaint  against  the  sermon  lay  in  the  unfair 
standard  for  judging  life  by  externals  which  it  in 
culcated.  The  Great  Teacher  demanded  considera 
tion  also  of  the  inside  of  the  cup.  Mary,  being 
impressionable  by  such  external  standards,  found  in 
this  sermon  a  complete  explanation  of  our  underly 
ing  discontent. 

"I  don't  suppose  we  can  expect  to  be  really  happy 
— we  haven't  a  right  to  be — until  we  have  children. 
So  many  people  have  them  who  don't  want  them. 
It  seems  so  unjust  that  we  can't  have  them." 

"According  to  that  doctrine,"  I  retorted,  "no  one 
can  be  happy  unless  married,  because  I  suppose  the 
reverend  Mr.  Falsinger  wouldn't  approve  of  chil 
dren  without  marriage." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  literal  Mary. 

"Also,"  I  continued,  "he  doesn't  believe  in  di 
vorce;  so  there  must  be  one  woman  for  every  man. 
But,  since  there  are  a  few  million  more  men  than 
women  in  this  country,  are  all  those  extra  men  con 
demned  to  unfulfilled  lives?" 

"That  isn't  fair  argument,"  she  replied.  "If 
people  marry  they  marry  to  produce  children.  If 
they  have  no  children  they  fail." 


FAMILY  SECRETS  131 

"I  grant  you  they  fail  in  that  very  important  mat 
ter;  but  must  their  lives  be  failures?  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  object  to  in  that  sermon.  It  assumes  that 
life  is  a  simple  matter  of  maturing  physically  and 
then  sacrificing  everything  else  to  bringing  a  new  set 
of  human  beings  to  maturity  who  will  then  continue 
that  endless  purposeless  chain.  My  idea  is  that 
human  life  is  development — not  merely  reproduction 
— that  each  human  being  has  the  job  of  improving 
somewhat  on  the  personality  with  which  he  starts. 
If  he  does  this,  then  the  next  generation  ought  to 
start  with  a  little  better  inheritance  than  his.  Of 
course  this  means  that  each  of  us  must  do  his  best 
to  reproduce.  But  it  also  means  that  reproduction 
isn't  the  whole  purpose..  Development  is  vitally 
important  to  successful  living.  If  you  and  I  can't 
have  children,  at  least  we  can  develop  ourselves  in 
such  a  way  as  to  add  our  infinitely  small  trifle  to 
the  improvement  of  mankind.  Maybe  this  will  work 
itself  out  in  someone  else;  maybe  we  may  carry  on 
an  improved  spirit,  or  soul,  or  something  immortal 
into  a  future  phase  of  existence." 

"But  Mr.  Falsinger  didn't  deny  the  value  of  self- 
development.  He  criticised  the  waste  of  hours  in 
cards  and  dancing  and  other  kinds  of  pleasure  seek- 
ing." 

"Why  did  he  call  it  waste,  Mary?  He  assumed 
it  was  waste;  but  he  didn't  explain  what  made  the 
difference  between  waste  and  useful  living.  He  ir 
ritated  me  because  he  talked  about  the  obvious.  Of 
course  a  happy  family  is  better  than  an  unhappy  one. 


132  FAMILY  SECRETS 

But  I  believe  the  problem  of  life  is  to  find  and  to 
achieve  its  purpose.  Religion  must  be  the  guide  to 
the  purpose.  When  I  go  to  church  and  my  official 
guide  ignores  all  my  questions  as  to  where  and  why 
I  am  going,  and  devotes  himself  to  telling  me  how  to 
go,  I  feel  that  I  am  cheated.  Frankly,  I  think  I  know 
more  about  how  to  live  than  he  does.  But  if  he  has 
studied  the  matter  exhaustively  I  should  like  to  have 
him  give  me  his  ideas  of  the  purpose  and  aim  of  all 
this  living." 

"Perhaps  if  we  had  children  we  wouldn't  have  so 
much  time  to  speculate  about  why  we  are  living," 
suggested  Mary. 

"That's  the  work  drug  that  is  so  well  advertised 
as  the  panacea  for  all  mental  ills.  Work  and  play 
are  good  medicine  in  reasonable  doses.  Too  much 
of  either  is  a  poison.  But  here  is  a  question,  Mary. 
Ask  Mr.  Falsinger:  'If  we  can't  have  children,  ought 
we  to  be  divorced  and  to  try  other  mates?'  ' 

This  speculation  went  too  far.  Mary  took  me  too 
seriously.  The  conversation  became  more  personal, 
then  embittered.  It  ended  in  tears,  hastily  dried  up 
when  some  friends  called  on  us  to  join  them  for  a 
walk  through  the  park.  Once  more  I  resolved  that 
I  would  not  go  to  church  again.  The  whole  disturb 
ance  was  the  fault  of  Mr.  Falsinger! 

For  a  time  Mary  and  I  had  many  talks  of  this 
character.  We  tried  to  explore  beyond  the  horizons 
of  everyday  ideas.  We  not  only  lost  our  way  but 
we  lost  each  other  early  in  every  exploration  and  it 
took  much  patient  searching  to  get  us  together  again. 


BOOK  III 
WOMAN 


CHAPTER  XII 
ENTER  IRMA 

THE   romantic   beginning   of   my  acquaintance 
with  Irma  Conway  resulted  from  Halliwell's 
fantastic  scheme.     It  is  a  queer  story  that  I 
find  it  hard  to  tell  candidly  without  making  myself 
out  to  be  either  a  hero  or  a  fool.     But  first  I  must 
explain   how    Halliwell    reasserted   his    intoxicating 
influence  of  college  days  in  my  later  and  more  sober 
years. 

I  had  been  working  for  some  weeks  in  Washing 
ton  on  the  Mid- West  case.  My  life  was  quite  un 
exciting.  There  were,  intermittently,  long  dull  hear 
ings  before  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission 
and  in  the  days  between  I  struggled  through  bales 
of  statistics  and  read  and  reread  and  analyzed  and 
classified  innumerable  confused  and  confusing  opin 
ions  of  courts,  and  prepared  elaborate  arguments  to 
;.dd  to  the  general  confusion  of  legal  thought.  I 
did  not  know  many  people  in  Washington  and  soon 
came  to  remember  the  faces  of  a  few  who  persist 
ently  passed  before  my  eyes.  Particularly  I  came  to 
recognize  a  sallow,  thin-faced,  snub-nosed  young 
fellow  whom  I  often  saw  lounging  in  front  of  the 
offices  of  the  Commission  when  I  emerged  at  the 
end  of  the  day's  hearing. 

135 


136  ENTER  IRMA 

One  evening  I  took  a  cousin  of  Mary's  to  the 
theater.  She  was  in  Washington  for  only  two  days 
and  Mary  had  written  asking  me  to  look  her  up. 
I  walked  back  to  my  hotel  after  leaving  her  at  the 
house  of  the  friend  with  whom  she  was  stopping.  In 
a  moment  of  absent-mindedness  I  turned  into  the 
wrong  street  at  Dupont  Circle  and  after  walking  half 
a  block  suddenly  turned  back.  Before  I  reached  the 
Circle  I  passed  and  recognized  in  the  light  of  a 
nearby  street  lamp  that  snub-nosed  young  man  with 
the  thin  sallow  face.  The  idea  popped  into  my  head 
that  he  might  be  following  me.  To  test  the  notion, 
after  walking  a  few  blocks  I  turned  a  corner  and 
stepped  quickly  into  the  door  of  an  apartment  build 
ing.  Within  a  few  seconds  this  same  young  man 
came  around  the  corner  and  paused  uncertainly,  ob 
viously  speculating  as  to  where  I  had  gone.  Then 
he  walked  briskly  ahead  and  I  emerged  from  con 
cealment,  retraced  my  steps  for  a  block,  and  returned 
to  my  hotel  by  a  roundabout  route. 

Until  long  after  midnight,  I  sat  up  puzzling  over 
this  new  phase  of  my  Washington  experiences. 
Clearly  I  was  being  shadowed.  For  whom?  Dur 
ing  a  few  angry  minutes  I  wondered  if  Mary  were 
doing  this.  Then  I  realized  that  that  suspicion  was 
unwarranted.  Mary  wouldn't  do  it.  Mary  couldn't. 
This  man  had  been  trailing  me  for  many  days.  Evi 
dently  he  was  not  alone.  There  must  be  two  or  three 
employed  to  keep  track  of  a  man  night  and  day. 
The  expense  alone  was  so  large  as  to  eliminate  all 
suspicion  of  Mary,  though  in  truth  she  had  never 


ENTER  IRMA  137 

shown  or  had  any  cause  for  a  jealousy  likely  to  result 
in  such  an  action.  The  obvious  answer  was  that 
the  railroads  I  was  fighting  had  employed  detectives. 
For  what  purpose?  Well,  probably  to  know  what 
I  was  doing;  possibly  to  see  if  I  could  be  caught  in 
some  discreditable  episode.  However,  they  had 
exposed  themselves  to  a  counter-move.  Suppose  I 
trapped  their  spies?  An  exposure  of  such  practice 
at  some  dramatic  moment  might  be  an  effective  move 
in  this  game. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  I  noticed  a  lean, 
bearded  man  at  the  table  just  beyond  mine.  He  sat 
half-facing  me  and  between  his  nervous  sips  of  coffee 
and  incessant  inhalations  of  cigarette  smoke  it  seemed 
that  he  was  watching  me  closely.  Just  as  I  was 
reproving  myself  for  getting  into  an  excitable  frame 
of  mind  where  every  glance  would  disturb  me,  the 
man  arose  and  walked  over  to  my  table. 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't  recognize  me,"  he  said, 
dropping  into  a  chair  without  waiting  for  an  invita 
tion.  "You  think  you  know  every  flicker  of  the  eye 
lash  of  an  old  friend  and  then  he  grows  a  tender 
little  beard  and  you  won't  even  respond  to  a  hint." 

"I  know  your  voice  just  the  same,  you  old  fraud, 
Gene  Halliwell,"  I  answered,  "but  when  you  wrote 
me  long  ago  that  you  had  grown  a  beard  I  thought 
you  meant  a  nice  civilized  little  trimming — not  a 
great  hedge  like  that.  Besides  I'm  being  followed 
by  detectives  and  you  look  just  like  a  stage  villain, 
so  I  never  suspected  that  I  knew  you." 

"Are  you  being  followed  too?"  he  queried.    "Isn't 


138  ENTER  IRMA 

that  grand!  I  have  two  on  my  trail.  They're 
parked  out  in  the  lobby  now.  If  we  take  a  walk 
together  it  will  look  like  a  procession.  What  high 
crime  have  you  committed?" 

"None  as  yet.  I  think  some  of  my  friends  are 
hoping  to  catch  me  in  an  indiscretion.  What  is  your 
affair  about?" 

"It's  an  affair  of  state"'  he  chuckled.  "I'm  just 
back  from  South  America  to  make  some  confidential 
reports  to  the  State  Department.  Ever  since  I  took 
the  Panama  Canal  our  South  American  brethren 
view  my  appearances  in  Washington  with  deep  sus 
picion." 

"Did  you  take  the  Panama  Canal?"  I  asked  skep 
tically.  "I  always  thought  that  was  Roosevelt's 
responsibility." 

"Oh,  he  got  the  credit  and  he's  welcome  to  it. 
But  little  Gene  did  the  wicked  work.  Didn't  you 
know  I  was  stationed  at  Bogota  at  that  time?" 

"You  wrote  me  two  postcards  and  one  letter,  if 
I  remember  correctly,  but  they  were  mostly  about 
the  poor  quality  of  wine  and  women  in  that  remote 
capital." 

"My  private  mail  was  always  public  property  in 
that  charming  country,"  he  remarked.  "I  couldn't 
tell  of  the  idealistic  villainy  I  was  performing,  but 
I  thought  you  might  have  guessed,  when  all  the  row 
broke  out,  that  I  was  in  the  thick  of  the  trouble. 
Those  were  wild  times.  But  T.  R.  was  absolutely 
right.  I  knew  that  gentlemanly  brigand  Mr.  Maro- 
quin  would  double-cross  us.  You  ought  to  have  seen 


ENTER  IRMA  139 

the  noble  senate  of  the  United  States  of  Colombia 
in  session  debating  the  treaty  with  the  United  States 
of  America.  Every  man  made  a  speech  on  both 
sides  of  the  question  so  that  when  orders  came  from 
the  Dictator,  the  honorable  Vice-President  Maro- 
quin,  he  could  vote  whichever  way  the  Dictator  told 
him.  It  was  an  unholy  farce.  The  only  trouble 
with  Roosevelt  was  that  he  was  too  gentlemanly  with 
the  robbers.  If  he  had  been  willing  to  say  the  word 
Panama  would  have  had  a  perfect  South  American 
revolution — lots  of  noise  and  nobody  hurt.  As  it 
was,  not  being  quite  sure  how  the  United  States  was 
going  to  act,  the  revolution  was  somewhat  of  a  mess. 
One  Chinaman  and  a  rather  nice  dog  were  killed." 

"What  are  you  doing  now?"  I  interrupted,  "and 
how  long  are  you  going  to  be  here?" 

"Can't  answer  either  question.  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  doing.  The  State  Department  said  to 
come  home  and  here  I  am.  I  thought  it  was  about 
my  fuss  with  the  Steel  Corporation,  but  in  a  dozen 
confabs  with  the  chief  that  business  hasn't  been  even 
mentioned.  So  I  guess  that's  what  I'm  here  for. 
It's  a  pretty  story.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some 
day.  Main  point  is  that  our  patriotic  captains  of 
industry  were  engineering  a  nasty  business  between 
Chili  and  Argentina  out  of  which  they  expected  to 
land  a  huge  contract  for  big  guns.  I  wrote  my  chief 
rather  bluntly  to  inquire  whether  my  job  was  to 
keep  good  relations  between  the  U.  S.  A.  and  South 
American  nations,  or  to  act  as  a  government  sales 
agent  for  the  Steel  crowd.  The  chief  wrote  back 


140  ENTER  IRMA 

that  he  would  like  an  explanation  of  a  report  which 
had  been  made  to  him  regarding  some  social  indis 
cretions  of  mine  involving,  he  believed,  three  poker 
games  and  two  ladies.  It  made  me  pretty  hot." 

"I  suppose  in  your  diplomatic  way  you  advised 
him  to  go  to  the  devil,  with  assurances  of  your  dis 
tinguished  consideration?" 

"I  did  not.  I  wrote  to  the  Senator,  my  patron 
saint,  explaining  in  detail  about  the  poker  games — 
even  describing  the  hands.  The  Senator  plays  a 
good  game  himself  and  I  knew  he  would  enjoy  the 
story.  Also  I  referred  to  the  question  of  the  ladies, 
explaining  that  I  did  not  wish  to  make  them  the  sub 
ject  of  official  reports,  especially  as  one  was  the 
Senator's  cousin,  whom  he  had  asked  me  to  look 
out  for.  Furthermore,  I  explained  to  the  Senator 
about  the  Steel  Company's  game  and  expressed  my 
suspicion  that  its  agents  were  poisoning  the  Depart 
ment  against  me.  The  Senator  loves  the  Steel 
crowd!  They  have  been  against  him  in  every  elec 
tion.  I'll  guarantee  he  had  a  warm  interview  with 
my  chief.  Anyhow  my  next  information  was  a  call 
to  come  home.  Probably  I'll  be  transferred  to  Siam. 
Let's  go  out  in  the  lobby  and  I'll  show  you  my  body 
guard." 

We  lounged  around  the  lobby  for  a  few  minutes 
and  Halliwell  pointed  out  to  me  a  swarthy  man  loaf 
ing  in  front  of  the  cigar  counter  and  a  hatchet-faced 
dyspeptic  who  was  sitting  near  the  outer  door. 

"Those  are  my  faithful  trailers,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  know  whether  they  are  South  American  agents 


ENTER  IRMA  141 

or  hired  by  the  Steel  crowd.  They're  both  interested 
in  me.  Maybe  it's  a  joint  employment.  Where  is 
your  fellow?" 

"I  don't  see  him,"  I  said.  "Probably  a  fresh  man 
is  on  the  job." 

"Suppose  we  take  a  walk  out  toward  the  monu 
ment,"  suggested  Halliwell.  "We'll  see  how  large 
a  crowd  follows  us." 

We  wandered  away  across  the  common  toward 
the  Potomac  and  by  taking  unfrequented  paths  grad 
ually  identified  three  men  who  kept  us  company 
at  some  distance :  Gene's  two  satellites  and  a  short 
heavy-set  man  with  a  round  face  and  little  staring 
eyes.  Then  we  returned  to  the  hotel  and  Gene  came 
up  to  my  room.  I  had  told  him  about  my  work  and 
he  had  begun  to  evolve  his  scheme  for  relieving  me 
of  this  annoyance. 

"The  chances  are,"  he  announced,  after  much 
talk,  "that  these  birds  will  try  to  frame  something 
on  you — even  if  they  haven't  orders  to  do  so.  A 
detective  must  deliver  the  goods — even  though  the 
goods  are  counterfeit.  They'll  try  to  mix  you  up 
in  some  sort  of  scandal.  The  easiest  way  to  get  rid 
of  a  troublesome  public  official  is  to  pull  some  private 
disgrace  on  him  in  the  newspapers.  The  great  Amer 
ican  public  will  swallow  a  lot  of  rottenness  from  a 
public  man  if  he  lives  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  is  kind 
to  his  wife  and  mother.  Witness  the  example  of 
one  of  your  Senators.  You  know  he  lives  at  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  down  here.  What  if  he  does  represent 
£he  Meat  Trust  instead  of  the  people?  What  if  his 


i42  ENTER  IRMA 

seat  was  bought  and  paid  for?  He  lives  at  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A. !  He  doesn't  smoke  or  swear  or  drink ! 
He  must  be  a  good  man!  But  you,  old  top,  you're 
one  of  these  fool  idealists  who  want  to  serve  the 
people.  You  are  just  one  of  the  romantic  sort  that 
might  take  two  drinks  too  many  or  pay  too  much 
attention  to  a  pretty  girl — and  if  the  public  ever 
found  that  out — why,  good-night  for  you !  Off  with 
his  head!" 

"Oh  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  foolish,"  I  pro 
tested.  "I'm  respectably  married.  I  love  my  wife. 
I'm  working  hard." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  stopped  me.  "I  know  you  are  a 
little  lily-white  angel — but — it's  just  lily-white  angels 
that  fall  into  traps.  Now  here  is  my  scheme.  We'll 
prepare  the  trap.  You  will  fall  into  it.  The  enemy 
will  rush  in  to  expose  you — photographers,  news 
paper  men  and  all  that — and  then  we  will  set  up  a 
loud  ha !  ha !  and  announce  that  it  is  all  a  fraud. 
Then  we'll  tell  these  blackmailers  to  quit  bothering 
you  or  we'll  expose  the  whole  dirty  business  our 
selves.  If  we  once  catch  them  they'll  never  dare  to 
pull  anything  on  you  afterwards — even  if  they  really 
caught  you  redhanded  in  some  naughty  little  game." 

"The  adventure  appeals  to  me,"  I  admitted. 
"This  work  is  a  good  deal  of  a  bore.  It  makes  me 
hot  to  think  of  those  smooth,  oily  lawyers  arguing 
so  politely  with  me  before  the  Commission — and  then 
I  suppose  getting  reports  on  my  daily  habits  from 
their  hired  crooks.  I'd  like  to  teach  them  a  lesson. 
But  I  must  be  sure  first  who  is  hiring  my  shadows." 


ENTER  IRMA 

"I'll  bet  I  can  find  out  in  a  hurry — maybe  by  lunch 
time,"  laughed  Halliwell.  "Can  you  stay  here?  I'll 
call  you  in  an  hour." 

But  Gene  had  more  trouble  getting  the  informa 
tion  than  he  expected.  It  was  not  until  I  joined  him 
at  dinner  the  next  evening  that  he  made  good  his 
boast. 

We  met  in  the  basement  grill  of  one  of  the 
smaller,  less  crowded  hotels.  We  took  a  table  re 
mote  from  eavesdroppers  and  as  soon  as  the  waiter 
had  our  orders  Gene  burst  forth  with  the  tale  which 
his  sparkling  eyes  had  promised. 

"It's  better  than  I  hoped,"  he  said.  "I've  got  all 
the  inside  story.  There's  a  young  fellow  who  acted 
as  a  sort  of  secretary-valet  to  me  when  I  was  sta 
tioned  in  Mexico.  He  is  a  Spanish-French-Italian 
mixture  with  all  the  romanticism,  trickery  and  per 
sonal  loyalty  you  might  expect  of  the  combination. 
He's  working  for  an  agency  here  in  Washing 
ton.  He  speaks  six  languages,  so  is  very  useful  to 
them.  He  would  do  anything  short  of  murder  for 
me.  I  never  asked  him  to  do  that — so  perhaps  I'm 
unfair  in  limiting  his  devotion.  I  couldn't  find  him 
yesterday.  But  I  located  him  to-day.  He  was  so 
glad  to  see  me  I  was  afraid  he'd  kiss  me — and  we 
were  in  a  very  public  place. 

"His  agency  is  following  you.  It's  one  of  the  two 
big  ones  and  I  was  sure  it  would  be  his  or  the  other 
big  one,  if  the  railroads  were  behind  it.  I  have  a 
friend  in  the  other  who  is  just  about  as  reliable,  so 
you  see  why  I  felt  confident.  Well,  Maxy  was  on 


144  ENTER  IRMA 

you  himself  one  day,  taking  the  place  of  an  operative 
who  was  sick — so  he  knows  the  instructions.  Then 
he's  talked  with  the  others  so  he  knows  about  all 
there  is  to  know." 

"Who's  doing  it?"  I  demanded. 

"The  reports  on  you  go  to  a  man  named  Jared 
Thurman." 

"The  sleek  old  hypocrite!"  I  exclaimed.  "He's 
the  local  lawyer  for  the  railroad  group,  General 
Attorney  for  the  Association.  He  was  a  Congress 
man  for  years,  then  became  a  railroad  lobbyist.  He's 
always  sweet  as  cream  to  me." 

"The  instructions  are,"  continued  Gene — "I'll  wait 
a  minute  till  the  waiter  gets  through.  .  .  .  The  in 
structions  are  to  report  where  you  go  and  what  you 
do,  with  particular  care  to  find  out  with  whom  you 
have  any  conversations  and  also  to  report  carefully 
on  any  meetings  with  women,  and  in  case  of  any  spe 
cial  interests  in  the  female  line  to  telephone  the  head 
office  at  once  for  further  instructions.  Have  you 
a  friend  named  Grayson?" 

"Yes,  he's  my  associate  counsel." 

"Well,  whenever  he's  in  town  they  furnish  him  an 
escort  also." 

"So  they  think  they'll  get  me  mixed  up  with 
women,  do  they?"  I  growled. 

"Oh,  Maxy  tells  me  they  pretty  nearly  had  some 
thing  on  you  one  day." 

"They  did  not,"  I  protested,  feeling  my  face  grow 
red  in  front  of  Gene's  grin.  Why  is  it  that  an  inno 
cent  man  will  look  so  guilty  under  unjust  accusation? 


ENTER  IRMA  145 

"It  seems  that  you  picked  up  a  girl  in  front  of  a 
movie  theatre  on  Ninth  Street,  one  day  when  it  was 
raining,  and  rode  off  with  her  in  a  taxi.  But  the 
operative  couldn't  get  another  cab  in  time  to  follow 
and  so  he  lost  you." 

Then  my  face  must  have  shone  red,  for  Gene  burst 
into  a  loud  cackle  of  laughter. 

"I  remember  that  well,"  I  explained.  "If  I  had 
known  I  was  being  followed  I  certainly  would  not 
have  done  it.  I  was  out  for  a  walk  and  it  began 
pouring.  I  stopped  a  moment  in  the  theatre  entrance 
for  shelter.  A  taxi  came  up  and  I  rushed  out  to  it. 
I  got  there  just  ahead  of  a  girl — and  a  pretty  girl 
too.  She  appealed  to  the  driver  to  take  her,  but  he 
said  I  was  there  first.  I  didn't  want  to  leave  her  in 
the  rain,  in  distress " 

"And  so  beautiful" — murmured  Halliwell. 

"Yes — and  so  beautiful "  I  repeated  dog 
gedly,  "so  I  told  her  that  I  had  to  get  back  to  my 
hotel  for  an  appointment  but  if  she  was  not  going 
too  far  and  didn't  mind  my  company  I'd  take  her 
home  first.  She  gave  me  one  searching  look,  evi 
dently  decided  I  was  safe,  told  the  driver  an  address 
and  hopped  in.  The  address  was  that  big  apartment 
hotel — you  know — Stoneleigh  Court.  I  didn't  ask 
her  name  and  she  didn't  volunteer  it.  I  left  her 
there  and  have  never  seen  her  since." 

"Stoneleigh  Court,"  mused  Halliwell.  "That's 
where  Irma  lives." 

"And  a  few  hundred  other  people,"  I  added. 
"Who  is  Irma?" 


146  ENTER  IRMA 

"Irma?  Irma  is  .  .  .  You  know  that  sounds  like 
the  sort  of  thing  Irma  would  do.  Was  this  girl  very 
pretty?" 

"The  little  I  saw  of  her  I  should  say  she  was." 

"The  kind  you  would  like  to  see  again?"  he 
quizzed. 

"Yes  I  would,"  was  my  defiant  reply.  "She  had 
a  lovely  voice." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Gene.  "Irma  is  just  the 
girl.  I  don't  mean  she's  the  girl  you  met.  Probably 
not.  But  she  is  just  the  girl  for  my  scheme.  Irma 
shall  be  Delilah.  I  know  she'd  love  to  play  the  part. 
Do  you  like  dark  hair  and  deep  slumbrous  eyes,  half 
hidden  depths  of  passion  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"Not  particularly,"  I  answered  slowly.  "I've  al 
ways  rather  fallen  for  blondes." 

"Well,  if  anybody  could  change  your  taste  it  would 
be  Irma  Conway,"  said  Gene.  "I  gave  up  blondes 
forever  the  night  I  met  Irma.  The  blondes  all 
looked  pale  and  feeble  after  Irma.  And  arms  and 
throat  and  shoulders !  Oh  my  dear,  dear  boy — when 
you  see  Irma  in  an  evening  gown — perhaps  it  would 
be  more  exact  to  say — out  of  an  evening  gown — 
you'll  be  glad  I  picked  her  for  the  heroine  of  this 
little  drama.  Really  I  don't  know  that  it's  fair  to 
your  nice  blonde  wife  for  me  to  expose  you  to  Irma." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  my  wife.  I'll  write  her 
all  about  this  siren  before  you  ever  introduce  me  to 
her." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  will.  The  question  is,  will  you 
write  her  all  about  the  siren  after  I  introduce  you?" 


ENTER  IRMA  147 

There  is  no  use  spoiling  the  story  of  Halliwell's 
drama  by  giving  in  advance  all  the  disillusioning  de 
tail  of  its  preparation.  I  wrote  down  shortly  after 
ward  the  events  of  that  memorable  evening  when  we 
acted  it  into  history.  I  wanted  to  make  sure  of  pre 
serving  an  exact  record.  I  might  have  found 
immediate  use  for  it  but  in  any  event  it  seemed  worth 
while  saving  as  an  entertaining  episode  in  this  ram 
bling  story  of  my  life,  which  I  find  so  much  fun  in 
writing  down  from  time  to  time  and  which  may  seem 
so  dull  to  those  who,  I  fondly  imagine,  may  care 
some  day  to  read  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  TRAP  OPENS 

THE  narrow  three-story  brick  house,  known  as< 
"Mama  Rabou's"  bears  no  sign  to  advertise 
its  hospitality.  The  cooking  and  the  excellent 
discretion  of  Madame  and  her  never  visible  husband 
have  given  it  a  reputation  which  has  traveled  far. 
In  the  basement  is  a  long  thin  dining  room  containing 
a  long  thin  table  covered  with  oil  cloth,  on  both  sides 
of  which  chairs  are  placed  close  together,  thus  mak 
ing  for  early  acquaintance  among  guests  who  may 
arrive  as  strangers.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  in  the 
front  bay  window,  is  a  piano.  This  is  the  "bo- 
hemian"  part  of  the  establishment.  Impecunious 
writers,  musicians  and  other  persons  lacking  the 
commercial  mind  and  its  fruits,  come  here  to  enjoy 
a  limited  but  appetizing  table  d'hote,  the  quality  of 
which  is  (or  was  once)  enhanced  for  the  uncritical 
'diner  by  a  small  bottle  of  "red  ink."  Dinner  is 
served  promptly  at  six-thirty.  At  the  end  of  the  meal 
it  is  probable  that  someone  will  play  the  piano  and 
those  who  sing,  or  enjoy  the  appearance  of  singing, 
will  gather  around  the  piano  and  vie  in  harmonic 
efforts.  At  nine-thirty,  however,  if  any  unacquainted 
with  the  rules  of  the  house  show  signs  of  lingering, 

148 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  149 

Mama  Rabou  will  enter  briskly  and  begin  to  turn 
out  the  lights,  saying  pleasantly:  "Good-night,  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  Come  again,  please."  He  would  be 
dull  indeed  who  would  not  recognize  in  this  a  hint 
that  it  is  time  to  go. 

Upstairs  what  was  once  a  front  parlor  is  now  a 
more  select  dining  room.  Here  there  are  small  tables 
wearing  table  cloths;  The  young  man  whose  com 
panion  shrinks  from  the  publicity  of  the  long  table 
downstairs,  or  who  desires  to  monopolize  her  society, 
will  seek  this  room.  But  he  will  do  well  to  come 
early  because  Mama  Rabou  only  serves  once  in  an 
evening  and  when  the  tables  are  full  she  will  admit 
no  more. 

"Come  to-morrow,  please,"  she  suggests  with 
pleasant  firmness.  "Come  early,  please.  Sorry,  but 
I  cannot  serve  any  more  to-night." 

However,  these  two  rooms  are  not  the  limit  of 
Mama  Rabou's  accommodations.  Behind  the  locked 
double  doors  at  the  rear  of  the  parlor  dining  room 
is  a  sort  of  back  parlor  where  private  dining  parties 
of  not  less  than  four  or  more  than  ten  will  be  enter 
tained  by  special  arrangement.  This  room  is  the 
main  cause  of  the  reputation  of  the  house  for  dis 
cretion.  Its  closed  doors  never  give  a  hint  to  the 
common  clientele  of  the  character  or  personnel  of 
the  party  which  has  sought  and  paid  for  this  privacy, 
though  sounds  of  their  merriment  may  stimulate  an 
interest.  Its  two  large  windows  look  out  upon  a 
blank  wall  so  that  on  a  warm  evening  they  can  be 
left  open  without  fear  of  publicity.  A  door  at  the 


ISO  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

rear  allows  the  waiter  to  serve  the  meal  quickly  by 
means  of  a  narrow  stairway  leading  down  to  the 
kitchen.  A  special  dinner  of  supreme  quality  will 
be  provided  in  this  room,  with  wines  suited  to  any 
extravagance  of  taste. 

One  Thursday  afternoon  Halliwell  and  I  acquired 
rights  to  this  private  dining  room  for  the  following 
Saturday  evening.  It  was  officially  described  as 
Parlor  A.  Halliwell  and  Mama  Rabou  did  all  the 
talking.  They  raced  their  French  verbs  and  pro 
nouns  again  each  other  for  half  an  hour,  while  I 
stood  by  and  tried  to  smile  intelligently  whenever 
madame  glanced  in  my  direction.  In  the  end  I  laid 
two  twenty-dollar  bills  in  her  hand  as  an  earnest  of 
the  soundness  of  our  intentions.  A  large  share  of 
Halliwell's  conversation  I  had  guessed  to  be  directed 
toward  insuring  the  presence  of  a  particular  vintage 
champagne,  which  I  judged  from  Mama  Rabou's 
persistent  "mais  oui"  and  acrobatic  eyelashes  might 
be  difficult  to  procure,  so  I  watched  her  reception  of 
the  money  with  some  trepidation.  I  feared  that 
perhaps  I  should  have  brought  along  the  family 
diamonds.  But  she  seemed  satisfied. 

"Now  we'll  put  on  our  open-fronts,"  said  Halli 
well,  as  we  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  "and  call  upon 
the  fascinating  Mrs.  Conway.  You're  sure  our  body 
guard  have  been  following  us." 

"Yes,  I've  seen  two  of  them  at  least.  One  is  my 
snub-nosed  friend." 

"Very  good,  very  good,"  he  chortled.  "I  had  a 
great  time  explaining  to  Mama  Rabou  that  if  any- 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  151 

one  tried  to  pump  information  out  of  her  to  be  sure 
to  let  him  know  that  you,  Monsieur  Merrill,  are  giv 
ing  a  little  dinner  Saturday.  She  was  insulted  at 
first.  She  never  talked  about  her  patrons!  That 
was  none  of  her  business,  and  so  forth.  Discretion 
is  her  habit  of  a  lifetime.  I  told  her  we  had  a  little 
joke  to  play  on  someone  and  she  must  be  a  little 
indiscreet,  just  this  one  time.  She  nearly  wept  but 
finally  promised." 

"I'm  somewhat  embarrassed  over  Mrs.  Conway's 
part  in  this.  It  seems  a  rotten  mess  to  bring  a  per 
fect  stranger  into." 

"Lord  bless  you!  She's  tickled  to  death.  She's 
no  stranger  to  me.  She  and  my  sister  were  in  the 
same  class  at  Smith.  She  visited  in  our  home  before 
she  married  Conway.  I  made  more  love  to  her  with 
less  effect  than  to  any  girl  I  ever  met.  She  doesn't 
care  for  my  type.  She  likes  a  man  big  and  broad 
and  husky,  sort  of  literary  pugilist  looking.  That 
was  Conway.  He  was  about  your  build.  Poor  devil 
— he  got  pneumonia  and  went  out  in  a  hurry.  That's 
the  trouble  with  you  big  fellows.  Skinny  hollow 
chests  like  me  live  through  everything.  Hope  you're 
not  susceptible  to  colds!" 

"No,  I'm  not,  old  crepe  hanger,  and  I  exercise 
all  the  time.  There  aren't  two  pounds  of  fat  on 


me." 


"Well,  anyhow  you'll  make  a  hit  with  Irma.    May 
be  you  have  already." 

"Did  you  ask  her  about  the  taxicab  episode?" 
"No,  I  forgot  it  completely.     She  always  makes 


1 52  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

me  forget  everything  except  how  wonderful  she 
looks.  Really  it  arouses  my  jealousy  to  cast  you 
for  the  hero  of  this  play.  I'd  like  to  fill  that  part 
myself." 

"I  don't  feel  like  a  hero.  I  feel  like  a  fool  or  a 
cad  or  a  silly  boy  or  something  humiliating." 

As  I  stopped  at  the  taxicab  desk  in  the  hotel  I 
saw  Maxy  lounging  within  earshot.  There  was  a 
faint  gleam  of  greeting  in  his  dark  eyes,  but  he  gave 
no  noticeable  sign  of  recognition.  I  ordered  a  car 
for  half-past-six  in  quite  a  loud  voice. 

When  I  returned  to  the  lobby  in  my  evening  clothes 
Gene  was  waiting  for  me.  In  a  far  corner  I  saw 
my  snub-nosed  sleuth  and  Halliwell's  dark-faced  fol 
lower  sitting  together.  Evidently  they  had  joined 
forces. 

We  drove  over  to  Stoneleigh  Court,  observing 
with  comfortable  amusement  that  another  car  was 
following  us.  In  Mrs.  Conway's  apartment  we  met 
a  solemn-appearing  middle-aged  woman  to  whom 
Halliwell  introduced  me.  It  seems  that  Miss 
Stevenson,  who  lived  with  Mrs.  Conway,  had  a  posi 
tion  in  the  Department  of  Agriculture.  She- wore 
that  look  of  hopeless  content  that  seems  to  charac 
terize  the  permanent  members  of  the  Government 
service  in  Washington.  They  have  no  particular 
fear  or  hope  of  the  future.  Their  positions  are 
exceptionally  secure.  Promotion  is  either  very 
gradual  from  inferior  pettiness  to  superior  pettiness, 
or  else  they  get  into  a  blind  alley  from  which  death 
is  the  only  exit.  Really  they  seem  to  me  the  saddest 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  153 

yet  least  pitiful  individuals,  I  have  ever  met.  The 
Washington  face !  If  you  once  see  it  with  an  imagi 
native  eye  you  will  never  forget  it. 

Miss  Stevenson  excused  herself  shortly,  with  some 
muffled  excuse  about  "helping  Irma." 

After  a  short  wait,  Irma  came  in.  She  was  far 
more  beautiful  than  I  had  imagined,  also  taller  than 
I  had  expected,  although  by  no  means  a  large  woman, 
just  large  enough  to  be  called — magnificent.  She 
wore  a  gown  of  soft  caressing  silk,  almost  black  in 
color.  I  think  it  was  what  is  called  midnight  blue. 
It  was  embroidered  with  sequins,  giving  a  mermaid 
like  enticement  to  the  smooth  lines  of  her  figure. 
After  one  glance  at  her  face  I  abruptly  turned  my 
eyes  downward  to  avoid  a  too  obvious  stare  of 
admiration.  Then  the  grace  of  her  white  arm  out 
stretched  in  greeting  and  the  lure  of  her  half-revealed 
bosom  drove  my  glance  back  again  toward  the  eyes 
that  had  first  confused  me.  Her  hair  was  drawn  in 
thick  waves  away  from  a  rather  low  forehead;  but 
although  black  and  luxuriant  it  did  not  seem  heavy. 
There  were  reddish  glints  in  the  finer  strands  that 
escaped  around  her  ears  and  curled  at  the  base  of 
her  shapely  head.  Her  white  throat  was  flawless, 
not  a  suggestion  of  surplus  flesh  yet  fully  rounded. 
All  these  things  I  noted  rapidly  and  then,  with  an 
actual  effort,  again  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  They 
were  deeply  set  and  shaded  with  long  curling  lashes. 
The  irises  seemed  almost  black,  but,  as  I  drew 
nearer,  they  appeared  less  forbidding,  more  of  a 
lustrous  brown,  sensitive  and  appealing — eyes  whose 


154  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

wish  it  would  be  hard  to  deny — and  whose  dis 
pleasure  it  would  be  difficult  to  endure. 

She  was  saying  something  and  her  voice  was  warm 
and  mellow  like  her  eyes. 

"I've  seldom  been  so  curious  to  meet  anyone,  Mr. 
Merrill.  Gene  has  planned  such  a  charming  series 
of  parties  for  two  people  who  have  never  met!" 

I  heard  myself  speaking  as  though  it  were  some 
one  else,  a  sensation  that  sometimes  follows  on  too 
much  alcohol.  For  the  moment  I  felt  drunk  and 
wondered  if  I  looked  that  way.  But  as  I  spoke  my 
mind  grew  clearer. 

"Pardon  me  if  I  seem  a  little  stunned.  If  I  were 
Gene  I  should  say  that  you  had  overwhelmed  me, 
but  not  being  good  at  pretty  speeches,  I'll  explain  it 
another  way.  You  said  we  had  never  met.  But 
I  think  we  have.  In  fact  I  think  I  brought  you  home 
in  a  taxi  one  rainy  day.  It  was  dark  and  I  didn't 
see  you  plainly  and  so  I  didn't  realize" — I  fumbled 
for  words. 

"You  didn't  realize  what  a  goddess  you  had  enter 
tained,"  interjected  Halliwell.  "You  are  certainly 
stunning  to-night,  Irma,  and  my  little  friend  is 
stunned.  I  don't  think  it  fair  to  burst  on  poor  Rod 
ney  in  full  blaze  of  glory  that  way.  Venus  rising 
from  the  waves  of  a  Paris  gown.  You  should  have 
revealed  yourself  more  gradually — say — come  in  first 
in  an  apron,  and  wearing  a  veil!" 

If  my  face  was  not  burning  red  it  felt  that  way. 
Even  Irma's  cheeks  flushed  lightly.  But  a  woman 
can  take  strong  praise  without  visible  confusion, 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  155 

especially  one  who  is  truly  beautiful.  She  has  had 
plenty  of  practice. 

"I'm  not  going  to  protest  Gene's  talk,  Mrs.  Con- 
way,"  I  said.  "Protest  would  be  useless  for  stop 
ping  him  and  anyhow  I  guess  he's  right.  I  feel  a 
bit  confused,  particularly  because  you  have  been 
asked  to  play  a  part  in  such  a  ridiculous  adventure. 
Frankly,  I  should  be  less  embarrassed  with  someone 
less — stunning.  I'm  afraid  you  would  give  a  shock 
ing  appearance  of  reality  to  any  pretense  that  I  had 
become  infatuated.  Also,  I'm  a  little  scared  for  fear 
that  under  such  a  stimulus  I  may  overact  my  part." 

"And  you  said  he  couldn't  flatter  the  ladies,"  she 
remarked  gayly  to  Halliwell.  "He  warned  me,  Mr. 
Merrill,  that  you  would  probably  try  to  reform  me; 
he  said  that  was  your  idea  of  making  love  to  a 
woman.  But  then  I  knew  he  never  told  the  truth 
so  I  wasn't  really  afraid." 

Gene  met  my  indignation  with  a  high  pitched 
laugh. 

"You  remember  Portia  Hamlet,"  he  accused. 
"When  I  tried  to  kiss  her  she  said  you  had  told  her 
that  promiscuous  kissing  was  all  wrong,  that  she 
should  treasure  her  affections  for  the  great  gift  to 
the  one  she  really  loved.  I  never  quite  forgave  you 
for  withering  that  young  flower." 

"Gene  delights  to  remind  me  of  all  the  raw  ideas 
that  I  annoyed  him  with,  long  years  ago,  Mrs.  Con- 
way.  He  got  over  some  of  his  illusions  earlier  than 
I  did.  But  he  still  possesses  the  illusion  that  he  is 
the  world's  greatest  lover,"  I  added  maliciously. 


iS6  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

"That  is  one  illusion  that  I  never  had — about  either 
him  or  myself." 

"Touche!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Conway.  "I  think  we 
had  better  go  and  find  Gene's  alleged  cousin  before 
you  two  get  to  quarreling." 

"She's  a  real  cousin,"  insisted  Halliwell,  "cross 
my  heart  and  hope  to  die !" 

What  Gene's  cousin  looked  like  I  cannot  tell.  We 
picked  her  up  on  the  way  to  the  Chevy  Chase 
Country  Club.  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  a 
small,  thin,  vivacious  young  woman,  whose  name  was 
Knowlton,  I  believe,  who  talked  to  Halliwell  in  an 
undertone,  with  much  giggling  laughter,  all  through 
the  evening.  After  dinner  we  danced,  and  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  I  danced  with  her  some  sprig 
always  cut  in  before  we  were  half  around  the  hall. 
Then  I  would  slip  away  to  a  quiet  corner  where  I 
could  think  about  Mrs.  Conway  or  go  through  a 
silly  self-deception  of  pretending  not  to  think  about 
her. 

When  I  danced  with  her — that  is,  with  Irma — I 
talked  very  little.  If  I  have  a  good  partner  I  don't 
care  much  about  chattering  through  a  dance  arid  I 
soon  found  that  she  had  the  same  idea.  Fortunately 
she  was  not  acquainted  with  the  young  vultures  who 
clustered  around  the  ball-room  and  continually  cut 
in  the  dances,  whereby  a  popular  girl  never  had  more 
than  thirty  seconds  consecutively  with  one  partner. 
Never  did  that  seem  to  me  a  more  asinine  method 
of  destroying  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  than  that 
evening  when  I  feared  at  the  outset  that  I  should 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  157 

be  allowed  very  little  time  with  my  beautiful  com 
panion.  I  blessed  the  fact  soon  demonstrated  that 
she  was  a  stranger  like  myself  and  I  remarked  upon 
my  good  fortune. 

"I've  been  in  Washington  only  a  few  months," 
she  said,  "and  only  once  before  at  Chevy  Chase.  I'm 
glad  I  don't  know  anybody  because  I'm  northern 
myself  and  I  don't  like  the  southern  style  of  cutting 
in  any  more  than  you  do.  I  should  dislike  it  espe 
cially  to-night  because  I  want  to  get  a  little  acquainted 
with  you,  since  we  are  to  be  disgraced  together  so 


soon." 


"Oh,  that  is  all  over,"  I  answered.  We  were  sit 
ting  out  a  dance  in  a  secluded  corner  and  I  had  just 
come  to  the  decision.  "I  couldn't  think  of  dragging 
you  into  an  affair  of  that  kind.  Putting  it  bluntly 
I  like  you  far  too  well  and  I  think  you  are  far  too 
attractive  a  person  to  be  mixed  up  in  such  a  thing." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  sat  looking  at  me  out  of 
half-shut  eyes  with  a  questioning  expression;  and  I 
stumbled  on. 

"I  might  as  well  try  to  be  frank,  even  though  I 
make  myself  ridiculous.  When  this  adventure  was 
planned  you  were  just  a  name  to  me  and  the  idea 
didn't  seem  so  outrageous.  But  now  two  things  have 
occurred.  You  are  a  real  human  being,  a  beautiful 
woman  with  a  past  and  a  future.  I  don't  know  much 
about  the  past  but  I  can't  see  how  this  business  could 
help  your  future — and  it  might  do  you  great  harm. 
A  woman's  reputation  is  nothing  to  trifle  with.  In 
the  second  place — I  find  it  hard  to  say  this  but  I'm 


158  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

going  to  do  it — if  I  were  not  a  married  man  I  should 
be  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you  already.  Under 
the  circumstances  I  don't  see  how  I  can  risk  pretend 
ing  to  fall  in  love  with  you.  That  part  needn't  worry 
you,  because  I  can  assure  you  that  your  slightest 
frown  would  stop  me;  but  it  worries  me  because  I 
really  try  to  be — respectable — and  even  if  all  other 
prohibitions  failed  me,  I  wouldn't  care  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself." 

I  stopped,  feeling  particularly  foolish.  Still  she 
sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  smiled,  a  lovely 
smile,  not  mocking  but  very  friendly.  Impulsively 
she  put  her  hand  on  my  arm  and  I  tingled  at  the 
light  touch. 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  know  how  to  make  love," 
she  said.  "No  great  lover  has  ever  flattered  me  as 
deeply  as  you  have  just  now,  and  several  great  lovers 
have  really  exerted  themselves  to  do  it." 

"Really,"  I  protested,  "I'm  not  trying  to  flatter 
you 

"That  is  just  why  you  are  so  flattering,"  she  in 
terrupted.  "You  display  an  appalled  dread  lest 
quite  against  your  will  I  may  charm  you  out  of  all 
discretion.  Now  what  could  be  more  flattering  to 
a  woman  than  to  give  her  such  a  sense  of  power 
and  to  pay  such  a  tribute  to  her — let's  call  it — per 
sonality?  Of  course  if  you  were  just  a  boy  or  a 
weakling  it  would  be  different,  but  when  a  mature 
man,  who  has  earned  scars,  who  has  fallen  in  and 
out  of  love,  who  has  married  an  attractive  wife — 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  159 

when  such  a  stout-heart  collapses  on  the  doorstep 
I  have  a  right  to  be  flattered." 

"I'm  feeling  more  foolish  every  minute,"  I  de 
clared.  "The  only  wisdom  I  have  left  is  in  my  legs — 
they're  urging  me  to  run  away." 

That  made  her  laugh;  and  restored  a  little  of 
my  lost  poise. 

"You  are  interesting  me  immensely,"  murmured 
the  siren,  leaning  a  little  closer.  "You're  such  a 
funny  combination  of  sophistication  and  boyishness. 
You  seem  to  be  stumbling  around  the  tennis  court 
and  yet  somehow  you  manage  to  keep  returning  the 
ball." 

"Oh,  it's  an  art,"  I  replied  with  mock  egotism. 
"It's  a  great  art!" 

"I'm  not  entirely  sure  that  it  isn't,"  she  said, 
further  heating  my  already  fevered  self-esteem. 
"However,  I'll  promise  you  one  thing.  You  are 
not  going  to  run  away  from  your  Delilah.  You 
agreed  with  Gene  that  I  should  be  Delilah  and 
Delilah  I  am  going  to  be.  Talk  it  over  with  Gene. 
He  knows  enough  of  my  past  follies  and  future  hopes 
to  assure  you  that  you  will  do  me  no  harm." 

I  did  talk  it  over  with  Gene  in  my  room,  to  which 
we  returned  at  the  end  of  the  evening.  He  reassured 
me  considerably. 

"Of  course,  you'd  have  scruples,  old  dear,"  he 
taunted  me,  "especially  when  you  found  the  lady  so 
beautiful.  I  notice  the  more  beautiful  they  are  the 
more  moral  you  get.  Downright  perversity  it  seems 
to  me.  There's  some  sense  in  being  moral  with  the 


i6o  THE  TRAP  OPENS 

homely  ones.  They  need  morality  for  comfort.  But 
how  would  you  like  to  be  a  beautiful  woman,  all 
fixed  up  by  nature  for  a  man  trap,  and  then  be  sur 
rounded  with  a  bunch  of  self-blinded  men?  Sheer 
waste  of  natural  resources! 

"However,  about  Irma — she  had  a  little  money 
of  her  own  and  Conway  left  her  some  more.  She 
doesn't  nejd  a  husband  to  support  her  and  doesn't 
want  one.  Men  have  been  flinging  themselves  at 
her  feet  for  so  many  years  that  she  gets  no  thrill 
out  of  adoration  at  all,  at  all.  She  had  a  gay  young 
life  before  she  married  and  a  pretty  speedy  one  dur 
ing  that  brief  episode.  Now  she  wants  to  do  some 
thing  more  amusing  than  to  frivol.  She  has  a  wild 
strain,  Irish  romanticism  I  guess.  She  wants  real 
adventure.  She  did  a  little  very  high-grade  detec 
tive  work — secret  service  is  a  nicer  name — in  New 
York  city.  Then  there  was  a  chance  to  land  some 
thing  quite  big  in  that  line  down  here,  so  she  came 
to  Washington.  The  head  of  the  agency  that  is 
following  you  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Like 
many  another  he  lost  his  head  over  Irma;  worked 
against  her  business  career  because  he  had  other 
plans  for  her.  I  don't  know  the  whole  story  but  it 
would  give  her  an  inexpressible  joy  to  make  monkeys 
of  that  crowd.  You're  offering  her  a  chance  that 
she  would  give  up  six  months  of  life  to  get.  I  didn't 
know  why  she  was  so  particularly  keen  to  do  this 
until  she  explained." 

"There  isn't  any  chance  that  she  is  really  working 
with  the  agency,  is  there?"  I  suggested  cautiously. 


THE  TRAP  OPENS  161 

"No  there  isn't  and  your  infatuated  little  heart 
doesn't  think  so,  either,"  laughed  Halliwell.  "You're 
just  trying  to  make  me  think  you  are  not  swept  away 
by  Irma.  But,  believe  me,  I  know  the  signs  too  well. 
I've  seen  it  happen  too  often.  You  are  twenty  miles 
out  at  sea  already  and  if  I  didn't  know  that  Irma 
would  bring  you  safe  back  home  I'd  telegraph  your 
poor  dear  wife." 

I  used  up  a  good  deal  of  coarse  language  trying 
to  convince  Gene  that  he  was  wrong — but  finally  gave 
it  up  and  told  him  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  home. 

"I  want  to  go  to  bed  and  dream  about  Irma," 
I  said  with  belligerent  emphasis. 

"Shameless!"  he  mocked  me  at  the  door.  "Re 
veling  in  his  shame!" 

He  was  wrong,  however.  I  felt  ashamed — so 
much  so  that  before  retiring  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
my  wife  and  told  her  all  about  Irma — that  is,  all 
the  facts  about  our  plan,  our  meeting  and  that  Mrs. 
Conway  was  a  very  good-looking  woman  of  the 
brunette  type ;  of  course  I  never  enthused  much  over 
brunettes,  but  she  was  a  distinctly  handsome  woman 
of  that  type.  I  tried  to  make  all  the  material  ele 
ments  of  the  situation  as  clear  as  though  Mary  had 
been  in  Washington  herself.  The  spiritual  elements 
— so  to  speak — I  could  not  analyze  sufficiently  to 
discuss  intelligently  with  myself.  Naturally  I  knew 
I  could  not  explain  them  to  Mary.  So  I  did  not 
try. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

FRIDAY  night  saw  Irma  again.  This  time 
I  called  on  her  alone — although  accompanied 
at  a  discreet  distance  by  my  faithful  sleuth. 
I  stayed  rather  late,  ostensibly  to  intensify  the  in 
terest  of  my  follower  and  his  clients.  To  be  honest, 
I  was  glad  of  the  excuse.  I  have  never  enjoyed  an 
evening  more.  We  talked  a  great  deal.  We  sang 
a  few  songs  together.  She  plays  the  piano  very 
well  and  I  am  supposed  to  have  a  fairly  good  voice. 
I  only  hope  she  had  half  as  good  a  time  as  I  did. 
Certainly  she  seemed  to  enjoy  talking  over  our  plans 
for  Saturday.  But  I  should  be  very  conceited  to 
imagine  that  she  found  half  as  much  pleasure  in  my 
society  as  I  found  merely  in  listening  to  her  voice 
and  watching  the  lights  and  shadows  play  over  her 
alluring  eyes.  I  won't  try  to  describe  her  eyes  any 
further  because  it  isn't  what  they  are  but  what  they 
do  that  is  important.  They  fascinate  and  subjugate 
me  in  a  way  that  gives  me  an  intense  sensation  of 
pleasure  mingled  with  positive  terror. 

There  were  times  when  were  were  sitting  rather 
near  together,  when  she  would  give  me  a  full  sweet 
look  that  was  far  more  heady  than  the  most  power 
ful  liquor  I  have  ever  swallowed.  I  had  a  physical 

162 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  163 

sensation  of  choking  and  an  unreasoning  impulse  to 
drag  myself  down  before  her,  to  press  my  cheek 
against  her  satin  slippers  and  to  babble  some  sort  of 
adoring  nonsense. 

I  wish  I  could  make  it  plain  that  I,  Rodney 
Merrill,  leaning  back  in  a  comfortable  chair  and 
exuding  ironic  comments  on  attempted  public  service, 
did  not  desire  to  do  this  thing.  But  inside  this  fairly 
self-possessed  individual  had  awakened  an  alien 
person  with  whom  I  had  only  a  faint  acquaintance — 
a  person  dominated  by  a  passion  to  serve  passion, 
by  a  desire  to  make  himself  a  slave  to  an  overpower 
ing  love — a  person  who  has  been  invisible  and  unfelt 
through  most  of  my  years,  and  only  half-visible  and 
half-sensed  in  brief  intoxicated  moments. 

But  when  this  woman  looked  full  into  my  eyes 
it  seemed  as  though  her  'glance  went  clear  through 
Rodney  Merrill  into  this  inner  person,  awoke  him 
and  summoned  him  to  do  her  will.  And  if  he  gave 
himself — what  would  she  do  with  him?  That  terri 
fied  me.  I  knew  what  she  could  do.  She  could 
trample  him  under  her  pretty  feet  if  she  wished  and 
he  would  bless  her  and  enjoy  the  pain.  Somehow 
that  did  not  scare  me.  It  seemed  too  sweet  a  humilia 
tion  to  be  feared.  But  I  knew  in  the  depths  of  the 
vanity  of  Rodney  Merrill  that  what  I  dreaded  was 
that  she  would  scorn  this  slave  gift  of  worship.  The 
alien  I  yearned  to  offer  all,  but  the  familiar  I  kept 
whispering,  "Fool!  Fool!  Fool!" 


164  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

Now  I  am  going  to  stop  right  here  and  say  some 
thing  in  defense  of  my  feeling  this  way  and  of  my 
writing  it  down.  There  are  two  kinds  of  people 
who  may  criticise.  There  are  those  who  have  never 
known  the  possible  strength  of  human  passion.  For 
them  I  am  sorry,  if  they  are  now  too  old  to  learn. 
If  they  are  young  probably  they  will  not  criticise. 
There  are  others  who  have  known,  but  are  ashamed, 
and  add  the  sin  of  hypocrisy  to  the  sin  of  being 
ashamed  that  they  have  ever  drunk  deep  of  life. 
There  may  be  a  third  kind  of  critic,  those  who  have 
known,  who  profess  not  to  be  ashamed,  but  who 
assert  that  such  things  shouldn't  be  talked  about 
publicly.  These  are  not  ignorant  or  hypocritical. 
They  are  self-deceivers,  for,  though  they  deny  it, 
they  are  ashamed  of  knowing  what  they  know.  I'm 
naturally  a  bit  of  a  hypocrite  and  self-deceiver.  I 
am  ashamed.  But  I  am  forcing  myself,  just  as  far 
as  my  Puritan  ancestors  will  permit,  to  write  an 
honest  story  of  an  honest — even  though  a  shameful 
passion.  Because  honest — though  shameful — pas 
sions  play  a  great  part  in  a  great  many  lives — and 
how  can  one  seek  the  purpose  of  life  as  I  am  con 
sciously  seeking  it — as  all  of  us  consciously  or  un 
consciously  are  seeking  it,  unless  one  faces  the  facts 
of  living?  Surely  if  damnation  waits  for  any  man 
it  should  wait  for  one  who  pretends  to  write  of  life 
and  thus  in  some  measure  influences  the  lives  of 
others,  and  who  deliberately  evades  the  facts.  It 
is  bad  enough  to  live  shams.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
writing  them. 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  165 

Let  me  make  my  motives  clear,  once  and  for  all. 
I  do  not  seek  to  excuse  or  to  palliate  my  wrong  do 
ings  or  my  mistakes.  Least  of  all  would  I  glorify 
my  errors  so  as  to  give  either  the  sinner  or  the  sin 
ning  a  romantic  attraction.  But  what  is  right  and 
wrong;  and  where  is  the  end  of  folly  and  the  begin 
ning  of  wisdom?  Just  because  the  pretense  of  such 
infinite  knowledge  is  ludicrous,  I  pray  that  I  may 
avoid  sticking  little  labels  on  the  pictures  I  try  to 
draw.  I  might  see  a  noble  life  with  a  chapter  of 
sordid  misery  at  the  end.  Should  I  call  it,  "The 
Reward  of  Virtue,"  and  earn  the  reputation  of  a 
cynic?  I  might  see  a  lying  scoundrel  accumulate  a 
fortune  and  live  to  a  ripe  old  age  surrounded  by  a 
loving  family.  Should  I  call  it,  "The  Wages  of 
Sin"?  Perhaps  the  noble  man  was  a  fool  and  the 
scoundrel  full  of  wisdom.  All  I  know  is  that  label 
ing  lives  is  a  futile  bore — but  trying  to  understand 
how  and  why  men  and  women  live  and  think  as  they 
do  is  at  least  interesting.  It  isn't  self-esteem  that 
makes  me  interested  in  studying  myself.  I'm  not 
worth  studying  as  an  exception  but  I  am  as  a  type. 
It  is  because  I'm  sufficiently  normal  so  that  my  ex 
periences  are  common  to  millions  of  other  men  and 
because  I  know  so  much  more  (and  so  much  less) 
about  myself,  that  self-analysis  interest  me  and  may 
at  least  amuse  others — if  it  is  honest. 


Therefore  I  confess  the  passion  that  Irma  Conway 
roused  in  me.    Whether  for  good  or  evil  it  is  a  great 


i66  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

experience.  Under  its  influence  I  wing  my  way  to 
heights  of  joy  I  had  not  imagined.  I  crawl  into 
depths  of  shame  and  pain  that  I  had  never  suffered. 
There  is  a  glory  in  the  sunshine,  a  tang  in  the  cool 
air,  a  lightness  in  my  sense  of  motion,  hitherto  un 
known.  And  I  pay  bitterly  for  this  delight,  in  a 
despair  that  there  is  so  little  of  it,  that  there  can 
be  so  little  of  it  in  the  long,  long  days  before  me. 
The  boyish  illusions  that  might  make  this  experience 
all  gladness,  are  gone.  I  have  no  impossible  hopes 
to  cheer  me,  no  thought  that  if  somehow  I  were 
free  or  could  obtain  freedom  and  lay  siege  to  Irma 
and  capture  her  for  my  own,  then  life  would  be  one 
long  sweet  song.  Of  course  if  I  were  free  the  adven 
ture  would  be  a  glorious  one.  Failure  at  the  end 
would  not  destroy  the  joy  in  having  played  the  game. 
Success  might  prolong  it  for  a  little  while. 

But  I  can't  vividly  imagine  marrying  Irma — and 
certainly  I  can't  imagine  her  caring  to  be  married 
to  me.  I  don't  really  desire  to  marry  Irma.  I  only 
wish  to  be  in  love  with  Irma,  and  to  devote  my  days 
to  making  love  to  Irma,  and  to  have  Irma  want  me 
to  be  in  love  with  her.  I  am  quite  convinced  that 
Mary  and  I  live  together  more  happily  than  could 
Irma  and  I.  Mary  is  real  and  solid  and  habitual 
— comfortable  qualities  in  a  partner  for  the  every 
day  business  of  living.  Irma  summons  me  to  dream 
and  to  venture.  She  brings  thrills  never  stirred  by 
wine  or  music.  She  brings  hints  of  a  purpose  in 
living,  because  she  lifts  me  out  of  a  body  that  I 
know  is  growing  old  and  is  going  to  die,  and  relights 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  167 

the  youthful  fire  of  illusion  that  I  once  called  my 
soul. 

I  should  like  to  write  more  about  how  Irma  makes 
me  feel — but  I  think  it  is  time  that  I  went  back  to 
my  story. 

.  3  •  •  • 

Pillar  Grayson  came  to  town  Friday  evening. 
Late  Saturday  morning  Gene  and  Pillar  and  I  and 
Irma  drove  to  the  Union  Station  and  met  a  very 
attractive  young  woman  whom  I  shall  call  Grace. 
She  greeted  Gene  with  marked  affection  and  the  five 
of  us  made  a  very  gay  luncheon  party  in  one  of  the 
conspicuous  hotels.  I  may  mention  that  through 
Maxy  we  had  learned  of  the  intense  interest  which 
the  two  detective  agencies  were  taking  in  my  atten 
tions  to  Irma.  They  had  been  informed  of  the 
dinner  arrangements  made  at  Mama  Rabou's  and 
had  made  plans  for  adding  to  the  entertainment  of 
the  evening. 

Our  jolly  quintet  played  around  Washington  all 
afternoon,  not  making  it  too  difficult  for  the  shadows 
to  follow  our  fool's  progress.  As  daylight  faded  we 
left  Irma  and  Grace  at  Stoneleigh  Court.  Halli- 
well  and  I  went  to  our  respective  rooms  to  dress, 
after  which  we  called  for  the  ladies  at  Stoneleigh 
and  escorted  them  to  Mama  Rabou's.  In  the  mean 
time  Pillar  Grayson  "dolled  up  decollete,"  as  he 
described  it,  and  sought  out  an  obscure  boarding 
house  where  he  acquired  the  companionship  of  a 
dashing  young  woman — well,  young  looking,  at  any 
rate — with  vivid  red  hair  and  deep  blue  eyes,  one 


168  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

who  would  attract  notice  in  any  company.  If  any 
sleuth  had  made  inquiries  at  the  boarding  house  he 
would  have  been  informed  that  Miss  McCarthy  had 
just  gone  out.  Whether  inquiry  was  made  I  do  not 
know. 

As  I  surveyed  this  hilarious  six  around  the  invit 
ing  table  set  with  the  very  best  of  the  Rabou  silver, 
china  and  glassware,  I  observed  how  utterly  un 
worthy  the  men  appeared  to  be  of  such  companion 
ship. 

"I'll  guarantee,"  I  remarked,  "that  the  waiter 
will  wonder  how  such  a  set  of  men  ever  managed 
to  acquire  three  such  marvelous  women.  Here's 
old  Pillar  Grayson  with  his  gray  hair  and  general 
grandfatherly  appearance,  Gene  Halliwell  hiding 
his  haggard  cheeks  behind  a  moth-eaten  beard,  and 
I,  the  youngest  in  the  crowd,  half  bald  and  rheumatic 
— all  of  us  imposing  our  middle-aged  wits  and  our 
renovated  enthusiasms  on  three  dreams  of  female 
youth  and  beauty.  It  isn't  right.  We  ought  to  leave 
such  charmers  to  the  men  of  their  own  generation.'1 

"Nonsense!"  roared  Pillar.  "The  younger  men 
can't  afford  such  companionship.  A  man  must  reach 
years  of  indiscretion  before  he  can  provide  for  the 
female  of  the  species  in  the  style  to  which  she  wishes 
to  be  accustomed.  Look  at  Miss  McCarthy — it  took 
years  of  hard  labor  in  my  profession  before  I  reached 
the  place  where  I  could  afford  to  bring  her  half-way 
across  the  country  to  take  part,  dad  like  an  Egyptian 
queen,  in  an  evening  such  as  this." 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  169 

"You  shameless  old  reprobate!"  cried  the  lady 
addressed,  laughing  shrilly,  "you  didn't  bring  me  half 
across  the  country.  I  paid  my  own  carfare  and 
furthermore  I  buy  all  my  own  clothes  out  of  the 
allowance  which  papa  gives  me." 

The  true  identity  of  Miss  McCarthy  being  known 
to  all  present — although  not  to  any  possible  eaves 
droppers  outside  the  half-open  windows — this  sally 
aroused  much  laughter,  above  which  Pillar  could  be 
heard  shouting: 

"Aileen,  Aileen,  when  you  put  on  that  baby  pout 
of  innocence  you  make  me  forget  all  my  dignity. 
I  shall  really  have  to  kiss  you — on  the  spot!" 

This  he  did  with  considerable  enthusiasm,  whereat 
Gene  promptly  embraced  the  somewhat  shrinking 
Grace.  I  turned  with  mocking  inquiry  toward  Irma, 
who  was  sitting  on  my  right,  and  remarked: 

"It  seems  to  be  your  turn  next." 

"Must  I?"  she  said  leaning  toward  me  with  a 
tantalizing  smile. 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  forehead.  The  noise 
in  the  room  receded,  though  I  could  hear  Pillar  say 
ing  something.  But  all  I  really  knew  was  the  near 
ness  of  dark  eyes  in  whose  caressing  depths  I  might 
be  happily  engulfed. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  the  discreet 
waiter  slid  in  with  a  loaded  tray. 

"Saved,"  mocked  Irma.     "Saved  by  a  waiter." 

"That's  only  in  the  first  act,"  I  threatened.  "In 
the  last  act  there  will  be  no  waiter." 


170  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

"Oh  yes  there  will  be,"  she  retorted.  "I  shall 
still  be  left  waiting." 

As  dinner  progressed  and  the  glasses  were  emptied 
and  refilled  persistently  the  merriment  of  our  little 
party  rose  dangerously.  The  incorrigible  Gene  de 
voted  himself  more  and  more  intensively  to  Irma, 
taking  an  obvious,  wicked  pleasure  in  my  dissatis 
faction.  This  left  Grace,  his  true  partner,  free  to 
entangle  Pillar,  who  showed  an  increasing  readiness 
to  engross  himself  with  her,  thus  leaving  Aileen  to 
me.  Without  rudeness  I  had  to  abandon  efforts  to 
separate  Gene  and  Irma  and  to  try  to  be  attentive 
to  Aileen.  Not  only  was  I  annoyed  at  losing  Irma's 
society  but  I  feared  our  actors  were  forgetting  their 
parts  in  the  little  drama  now  rapidly  approaching  a 
climax. 

When  coffee  and  liqueurs  were  being  served  I 
found  an  excuse  to  wander  around  the  table  and  whis 
per  a  few  warning  words,  which,  combined  with  the 
coffee,  had  some  effect  in  restoring  the  original  com 
bination  to  working  order.  Knowing  the  plans  of 
the  detective  agencies  we  were  assured  that  they 
would  not  spring  their  trap  until  they  felt  they  had 
their  victims  at  the  greatest  disadvantage.  After 
dinner  Grace  played  the  piano  and  we  danced  a 
little  and  sang  a  little.  Then  Gene  loudly  ordered 
in  more  wine  and  we  indulged  in  considerable 
apparent  drinking,  although  the  imminent  crisis  had 
a  very  sobering  effect  on  all  of  us  and  there  was 
much  less  wine  consumed  than  one  would  have 
judged  from  the  noise  and  the  constant  clink  of 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  171 

glasses.  It  was  probably  about  ten  o'clock  when  we 
set  the  scene  for  the  last  act. 

Irma  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  table 
opposite  the  windows.  On  my  left  sat  Pillar  Gray- 
son  with  the  dashing  but  now  somewhat  tousled  Miss 
McCarthy,  lolling  in  his  lap.  With  one  arm  around 
his  neck,  her  red  hair  tumbling  about  her  ears  and 
a  half-empty  champagne  glass  in  her  hand,  with 
Pillar's  gray  hair  falling  over  his  forehead  and  his 
crumpled  shirt  front  bursting  from  its  studs,  they 
were  a  pretty  maudlin-looking  couple.  On  Irma's 
right  was  Halliwell,  supporting  in  similar  fashion 
the  high-spirited  Grace.  There  was  nothing  maudlin 
in  their  appearance,  but  as  a  living  picture  of  Mr. 
and  Miss  Bacchus  about  to  smash  the  glassware  and 
dance  on  the  table,  they  were  a  complete  success. 

"One  last  song,"  boomed  Grayson,  "and  then  we 
must  be  going  or  Mama  Rabou  won't  let  us  ever 
come  again."  Then  he  began  in  a  somewhat  thick 
voice  to  sing,  "Good-Night,  Ladies,"  and  we  all 
joined  in. 

Irma  and  I  sat  close  together  but  with  our  arms 
before  us  on  the  table.  There  was  not  the  slightest 
appearance  of  impropriety  in  our  position — but  our 
companions  amply  supplied  that  element  of  the  pic 
ture.  They  certainly  looked  disreputable.  As  the 
song  began  I  waited  for  the  footlights.  This  was 
to  be  the  last  act,  if  our  plans  went  right.  Each 
word  rolled  out  slowly  from  Pillar  and  the  rest 
followed  his  time — but  nothing  happened  as  we  sang 
the  verse: 


172  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

"Good-night,  ladies, 
Good-night,  ladies, 
Good-night,  ladies, 
We're  going  to  leave  you  now." 

We  began  the  chorus: 
"Merrily  we  roll  along,  roll  along,  roll  along- 


Then  came  the  crash! 

There  was  a  roar  at  the  open  windows  as  two 
flashlights  went  off  in  succession.  After  the  boom 
of  the  flashlights  the  doorbell  began  to  ring.  We 
could  hear  scurrying  steps  in  the  hall.  A  frightened 
waiter  thrust  his  face  in  at  the  door.  He  saw  us 
sitting  as  though  frozen  to  our  seats.  Through  the 
window  leaped  a  man,  two  men,  three  men — four  I 
One  ran  out  into  the  hall  and,  over  the  loud  protests 
of  Mama  Rabou,  opened  the  front  door,  returning 
with  more  men. 

Now  there  were  at  least  eight  men  in  the  room; 
and  behind  them  Mama  Rabou  and  two  servants 
peered  in  from  the  doorway.  We  had  finally  jumped 
up,  the  women  shrinking  back,  the  men  smoothing 
their  shirt  fronts  and  nervously  brushing  the  lint  of 
napkins  from  their  black  clothes. 

"Welcome  to  our  party,"  said  Grayson.  "I  don't 
know  who  invited  all  you  gentlemen,  but  someone 
ought  to  welcome  you,  I'm  sure.  Is  this  a  delegation 
or  just  a  mob?  Have  you  a  chairman  who  can  ex 
plain  what  this  is  all  about?" 

A  broad-faced  man  with  thin  lips,  a  thin  nose  and 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  173 

narrow  eyes,  who  was  standing  beside  my  snub-nosed 
detective,  stepped  forward. 

"You  are  Mr.  Pillar  Grayson?"  he  asked  in  a 
twanging  voice. 

Grayson  nodded. 

"This  is  Mr.  Rodney  Merrill?"  he  continued 
pointing  to  me,  "and  this  is  Mr.  Eugene  Halliwell?" 

"That's  correct,"  answered  Grayson,  "and  now 
suppose  you  introduce  yourself  and  your  friends." 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  broad-face  importantly. 
"I  was  about  to  ask  the  names  of  the  ladies  next." 

"Well,"  said  Grayson,  slowly,  "if  the  ladies  will 
excuse  me  I  will  state  that  that  is  none  of  your  damn 
business.' 

"Took  the  words  right  out  of  my  mouth,"  said 
Miss  McCarthy  in  a  thin  plaintive  little  voice. 

Two  or  three  of  our  visitors  promptly  made  notes 
on  pads  of  paper  they  were  carrying. 

"Ah,  we  have  gentlemen  of  the  press  with  us,  I 
see,"  commented  Grayson.  "I'm  somewhat  sur 
prised.  Most  newspaper  men  I  know  are  gentlemen. 
I  wouldn't  have  expected  to  find  them  running  around 
with  jail  birds  like  Connery." 

The  broad-faced  man  was  visibly  upset.  Our 
party  was  equally  amazed  at  this  sudden  turn.  Gray- 
son  glanced  at  me. 

"The  leader  of  this  little  party  is  Mr.  James 
Connery,  Rodney,"  he  said.  "The  last  time  I  saw 
him  he  was  on  his  way  to  jail  for  sending  a  black 
mailing  letter  through  the  mails.  That  was  years 
ago.  Now  he  calls  himself  a  detective  and  works  a 


i74  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

safer  line  than  individual  blackmail.  He  blackmails 
for  big  respectable  institutions  like  railroads  and 
other  public  utility  corporations." 

Connery's  newspaper  aids  noticeably  shrank  away 
from  him  during  this  attack.  Even  the  snub-nosed 
man  and  the  men  I  had  seen  trailing  Halliwell  looked 
uncomfortable. 

"Strong  words,"  sang  out  Connery,  with  a  snarl, 
"strong  words,  Mr.  Grayson,  but  you  are  trying  to 
get  away  with  a  lot  yourself,  I'd  say.  We  got  a 
pretty  little  photograph  of  you — a  married  man  with 
that  lady  there  sitting  on  your  knee.  I  don't  have 
to  take  your  sass  either.  I've  got  nothing  to  say 
to  you.  I'm  not  trying  to  get  anything  out  of  you. 
I  just  wanted  to  identify  you  and  your  friends  to 
the  newspaper  boys,  so  they  can  get  a  good  story 
if  they  want  it.  I'm  not  working  for  any  railroad 
either.  There's  a  reform  organization  that  pays 
for  getting  the  evidence  to  put  places  of  this  kind 
out  of  business  in  Washington.  I'm  working  for 
them.  See?" 

Mama  Rabou  in  the  back  of  the  crowd  began  a 
voluble  defense  of  her  establishment. 

"Don't  worry,  Mama  Rabou,"  called  out  Gray- 
son.  "There  will  never  be  one  word  of  this  in  any 
newspaper,  or  any  evidence  presented  in  any  court, 
unless  we  decide  to  send  a  few  railroad  men  to  jail 
for  blackmail !  You  boys,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
the  newspaper  men,  "have  been  brought  here  under 
false  pretenses.  I  know  you  wouldn't  have  taken 
part  in  such  a  dirty  business  if  you  hadn't  been 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  175 

lied  to.  There  isn't  a  reputable  paper  in  the  whole 
country  that  would  print  a  pure  blackmail  story  even 
if  it  was  good  news.  If  any  of  you  are  unfortunate 
enough  to  work  for  a  paper  that  would  print  the 
story,  I'll  tell  you  right  now  to  tell  your  editors  that 
that  paper  will  go  broke  in  a  year  paying  the  damages 
in  six  libel  suits.  There  are  six  of  us  here,  you  see." 

"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Grayson,"  said  a  young 
gloomy-faced  fellow,  who  looked  as  though  all  his 
meals  for  ten  years  had  disagreed  with  him.  "The 
paper  I  work  for  isn't  so  darn  particular  as  you 
may  think;  and  as  for  libel  suits — the  day  we  don't 
get  any  we  know  we  got  out  a  poor  paper  the  day 
before!  You're  a  married  man  and  Mr.  Merrill's 
a  married  man  and  this  party  doesn't  look  so  good. 
We  boys  haven't  seen  all  the  show,  but  the  little  I 
glimpsed  from  outside  that  window  didn't  look  like 
a  church  sociable." 

"Who  invited  you  to  come  here?"  I  asked. 
"Who  tipped  this  off  to  you  as  a  story?" 

"That's  my  business,"  he  said  defiantly. 

"You'll  find  its  our  business  before  the  evening 
is  over,"  remarked  Grayson.  "But  if  you  won't  talk 
to  us  we  don't  care  to  talk  to  you.  Go  ahead  and 
take  notes  until  your  hand  is  tired.  You'll  never  get 
one  line  in  your  paper." 

"Let  me  say  a  few  words,"  said  Gene,  stepping 
forward.  "I'm  talking  now  to  all  you  men  as  men. 
Some  of  you  detectives  are  working  for  one  agency 
and  some  for  another.  We  know  all  about  you.  We 
may  as  well  tell  you  newspaper  men  that  these 


176  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

agencies  have  been  trying  to  ruin  the  three  of  us, 
and  all  because  we  are  working  for  the  public.  Mr. 
Merrill  and  Mr.  Grayson  are  fighting  the  railroads. 
They  represent  the  State  of  Illinois.  I've  been  fight 
ing  the  Steel  crowd.  I  represent  the  United  States. 
We  men  have  been  doing  our  duty  as  we  saw  it.  We 
may  be  all  wrong  but  we've  been  fighting  honestly 
for  things  we  believe  in  and  we've  fought  fair. 

"The  railroad  men  and  the  steel  men  may  have 
been  fighting  for  things  they  believe  in.  They  are 
fighting  for  money.  I  know  they  certainly  believe 
in  that.  Maybe  they  believe  in  something  better 
than  money  though  I  doubt  it  sometimes.  At  any 
rate  they  haven't  fought  fair.  They  call  themselves 
great  business  men  and  they  fight  with  the  weapons 
of  crooks.  They  fight  like  men  of  the  underworld 
of  crime.  They  have  used  you  men  to  follow  us — 
not  for  information  merely,  but  to  get  something  on 
us,  to  get  us  in  a  position  where  still  dirtier  tools 
of  theirs  could  blackmail  us  and  try  to  make  us  be 
tray  our  clients  and  become  crooks  like  themselves. 
We've  proved  that.  We've  got  the  goods  on  you; 
and  you  haven't  got  them  on  us.  If  you  gentlemen 
will  wait  long  enough  I'll  show  you  the  photographs 
you  took,  because  we  have  them.  We  have  copies 
of  all  your  instructions.  We  have  copies  of  the  bills 
for  this  rotten  work.  We  know  who  paid  the  bills. 
We  can  prove  attempted  blackmail  from  start  to 
finish. 

"We  set  a  trap  for  you  to-night  and  you  walked 
into  it.  We  have  you  and  your  employers  in  the 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  177 

trap.     Now  you  can  go  if  you  want.     We're  not 
interested  in  you,  even  as  witnesses." 

"Well,  now  look  here,"  began  Connery  with  a 
bullying  bellow,  "you  try  to  carry  things  with  a  high 
hand." 

"Ah,  the  jail  bird  is  singing  again,"  said  Grayson, 
turning  around  from  a  whispered  conversation  he 
had  been  having  with  Aileen  while  Gene  was  speak 
ing. 

"That's  a  lie!"  shouted  Connery.  "I  never  was 
in  jail.  You're  trying  to  get  away  with  that  bunk 
along  with  the  rest  of  it.  You've  got  a  nerve.  You 
tvith  a  wife  in  Chicago  and  a  red-headed  woman 
sitting  on  your  lap  in  Washington.  You  try  to  play 
the  high  and  mighty!" 

"Excuse  me,"  interrupted  a  tall,  thin  young  man 
who  had  just  pushed  his  way  forward.  He  carried 
the  inevitable  pad  of  paper  that  identified  him  as  a 
reporter.  "Mr.  Merrill,  you  don't  know  me,  but 
you  know  my  brother  in  Chicago  and  I  know  about 
you.  My  name  is  MacMillan.  I've  been  standing 
here  feeling  like  a  cad  for  twenty  minutes.  I  don't 
think  you  men  are  bluffing  and  I  think  we  all  ought 
to  be  thrown  out  on  our  necks.  I  don't  know  what 
story  was  told  my  city  editor,  but  it  must  have  been 
a  lie  or  he  wouldn't  have  sent  me  out  on  this.  If 
you  can  just  clear  up  one  or  two  things  for  me  I'd 
like  to  leave  and  go  back  to  the  shop  and  tell  them 
what  I  think  of  this  assignment." 

"I   suppose,"   I   answered,    smiling,   "you   would 
like  to  know  how  Mr.  Grayson  expects  to  explain 


178  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

this  situation  to  his  wife,  or  whether  I  intend  to 
explain  it  to  mine?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  that,"  he  protested. 

"It  can  be  explained  quite  easily,"  I  said.  "Since 
we  have  found  there  is  a  gentleman  in  this  crowd 
perhaps  we  can  introduce  him  to  the  ladies." 

"Wait  a  second,"  said  Grayson,  "before  we  in 
troduce  ourselves  I  want  the  name  of  everybody  in 
this  room  and  anyone  who  does  not  care  to  give  his 
name  can  leave  now." 

"Well  suppose  anyone  won't  leave?"  inquired  the 
gloomy-faced  dyspeptic. 

"Oh,  we'll  have  him  arrested  and  carried  out," 
answered  Grayson.  "I  sent  for  the  police  some  time 
ago.  Don't  worry,  Mama  Rabou,"  he  added  in 
answer  to  her  wail.  "I  sent  for  a  friendly  police 
man.  I  think  I  hear  him  coming." 

Thumping  steps  in  the  outer  hall  were  followed 
by  the  entrance  of  a  burly  man  in  uniform  in  tow  of 
the  small  and  very  much  excited  Maxy. 

"Which  of  you  is  Mr.  Grayson?"  rumbled  the 
policeman. 

"I  am,"  said  Pillar. 

"The  chief  told  me  this  young  feller  would  bring 
me  here  and  you  might  want  help."  He  blinked 
around  at  the  strange  gathering  and  I  noted  that 
his  glances  lingered  appreciatively  on  the  ladies  in 
our  party. 

"I  was  just  calling  the  roll,  officer,  when  you 
entered.  These  guests  of  ours  were  going  to  give 
us  their  names." 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  179 

The  roll  call  was  quickly  completed. 

While  Grayson  was  conducting  it  Maxy  had  been 
showing  the  rest  of  our  party  a  picture  taken  by  the 
detective  photographer  in  the  flashlight  which  had 
opened  this  last  act.  It  certainly  made  us  out  to 
be  a  most  disreputable  crowd.  Aileen  and  Grace 
went  into  shrieks  of  laughter  over  it  and  Irma  was 
much  amused. 

"Now,"  said  Grayson  at  the  end  of  the  roll  call, 
"we  will  show  you  your  little  photograph,  Mr.  Con- 
nery.  Your  assistant  Mr.  Maxy  has  brought  it  to 
you." 

Connery  glared  at  Maxy. 

"You  double-crosser,"  he  snarled. 

Maxy  smiled. 

"I've  just  resigned,  Connery,"  he  said,  "but  to 
morrow  I  think  you'll  be  fired.  I  took  the  plates 
from  Johnson  just  as  you  told  me,  and  had  them  de 
veloped  right  away.  Only  one  was  any  good.  Oh, 
then  I  had  an  accident!  After  I  had  printed  three 
pictures  I  dropped  the  plates  on  the  floor  and  they 
happened  to  break,  so  I  pounded  them  into  small 
pieces.  But  you  see  I  have  pictures  for  Mr.  Halli- 
well,  Mr.  Grayson  and  Mr.  Merrill — one  apiece — 
and  that  was  all  they  ordered.  So  it  isn't  so  bad 
that  the  plate  was  broken.  The  order  has  been 
filled." 

Connery's  expressions  during  this  sweet-natured 
stabbing  were  most  entertaining. 

"Let  me  show  the  officer  a  photograph,"  said 
Grayson.  "Officer,  these  men,  whose  names  I  took, 


i8o  THE  TRAP  CLOSES 

watched  our  little  party  through  the  windows  over 
there  and  then  took  this  picture  of  us." 

The  officer  took  a  long  look. 

"Well  it  seems  to  have  been  quite  a  pleasant  little 
party,"  he  finally  announced  judicially. 

"Officer,  you're  married?  I  thought  so.  Suppose 
you  were  entertaining  a  party  of  friends  at  your 
home  and  your  dear  wife  was  sitting  on  your  knee 
and  some  Peeping  Tom  sneaked  up  and  peeked 
through  the  window  and  tried  to  take  a  picture  of 
you  because  he  thought,  and  wanted  to  tell  your 
enemies,  that  it  was. some  woman  who  was  not  your 
wife  who  was  sitting  on  your  knee.  What  would 
you  do  to  such  a  man?" 

"I  think  I'd  shoot  the — begging  your  ladies' 
pardon — I  meant  to  say  I  think  I'd  shoot  him !  May 
I  ask  if  this  lady  is  your  wife,  Mr.  Grayson?" 

"You  guessed  right  the  very  first  time,  officer, 
which  is  more  than  this  whole  flock  of  detectives 
could  do  in  several  hours." 

'Tis  a  very  handsome  wife  you  have,"  com 
mented  the  officer,  gallantly;  "and  may  I  ask  if  the 
other  lady,  sitting  in  the  other  gentleman's  lap,  is 
his  wife  also?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Grayson.  "That  is  Mr. 
Eugene  Halliwell,  hiding  behind  the  beard,  and  the 
lady  sitting  in  his  lap  has  been  sitting  there  off  and 
on,  so  to  speak,  for  more  than  twenty  years.  She 
is  his  sister,  Miss  Grace  Halliwell." 

"It  seems  to  have  been  quite  a  respectable  party," 
remarked  the  policeman,  with  a  faint  sigh.  Then  he 


THE  TRAP  CLOSES  181 

turned  on  our  unbidden  guests.  "And  how  dare 
you  men  butt  in  on  a  gathering  of  ladies  and  gentle 
men  enjoying  themselves  peaceably  and  in  a  proper 
law-abiding  way  ?  I  ought  to  run  you  in,  every  one 
of  you." 

The  party  broke  up  very  rapidly  after  our  blue- 
coated  friend  had  sized  up  the  situation.  The  last 
scene  was  played  without  the  intruding  chorus.  A 
cold  bottle  was  brought  in  and  eight  glasses  filled, 
in  order  that  we  might  drink  a  farewell  toast  to 
(and  with)  "an  officer  and  a  gentleman." 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  RADICAL  RE-BORN 

IT  seems,  as  I  look  back  upon  the  Sunday  morning 
following  tlie  evening  at  Mama  Rabou's,  that 
I  can  trace  in  my  "cold-gray-dawn"  reflections 
the  revival  of  that  earlier  spirit  of  revolt  which 
recent  years  of  money  making  and  home  making  had 
stifled.  I  awoke  rather  late  to  a  dismal  cloudy  sky 
and  to  a  dull,  cloudy  mind.  The  after  effects  of  too 
much  wine,  tobacco  and  excitement  were  potent  but 
not  all  bad.  One  of  the  errors  of  the  total  abstainer 
is  the  assumption  that  the  pains  of  absorbing  too 
much  alcohol  are  entirely  unprofitable.  In  truth  a 
diseased  body  may  mean  a  stimulated  mind.  Suf 
fering  is  more  likely  to  make  one  think  hard,  than 
pleasure.  I  have  no  desire  to  treasure  the  semi-in 
toxicated  wit  which  has  passed  over  my  ears  on  a 
hundred  spongy  occasions  but  I  should  hate  to  lose 
out  of  my  philosophy  the  thoughts  of  a  hundred 
mornings  after. 

Having  been  told  often  that  I  am  a  negative  char 
acter,  I  may  assume  that  it  takes  a  blow  to  make 
me  fight  life.  Without  punishment  I  am  inclined  to 
drift  along  the  course  of  least  resistance  until  resent 
ment  of  opposition  rouses  me  to  make  an  attack. 

182 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  183 

Thus  on  this  Sunday  morning  a  growling  headache 
put  a  bitterness  into  the  feeling  against  the  railroads 
which  welled  up  within  me  as  I  realized  to  the  full 
the  brutal,  unscrupulous  character  of  their  methods 
of  fighting  a  lawsuit. 

Of  course,  it  would  be  easy  to  say  that  if  I  lived 
a  clean  life  I  need  fear  nothing  from  such  tactics. 
But  it  would  not  be  true.  I  have  seen  too  much  of 
the  use  of  detectives  in  industrial  warfare  between 
employers  and  employees  to  think  that  virtuous  living 
would  have  thwarted  the  plotters.  The  agency  had 
been  hired,  not  to  find  out  whether  I  was  a  good 
man,  but  to  get  evidence  to  show  that  I  was  a  bad 
man.  If  I  had  not  produced  the  evidence,  the  sleuths 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  do  so.  It  is  really  surer 
to  "frame  up"  evidence  against  any  fairly  decent 
man  than  to  get  usable  evidence  of  actual  wrong 
doing.  When  the  trap  is  laid  in  advance  a  far 
better  case  can  be  made  out  than  if  the  trappers  must 
follow  a  long  devious  trail  with  little  preparation 
for  taking  advantage  of  a  misstep  by  the  hunted  man. 

That  was  the  reason  why  Halliwell,  Grayson  and 
I  were  so  anxious  to  provide  our  own  trap.  We 
wanted  to  catch  our  foes  in  a  blackmail  failure  so 
as  to  discredit  any  possible  attack  which  might  come 
thereafter.  [A  later  note  by  R.  M. :  "For  the  benefit 
of  any  unsophisticated  person  let  me  remark  that  the 
use  of  despicable  methods  of  this  character  in  fight 
ing  public  officials  is  not  the  exception  but  the  com 
monplace  in  public  life.  My  experience  has  been 
duplicated  in  differing  forms  by  most  public  servants, 


1 84  A  RADICAL   RE-BORN 

of  independent  power  with  whom  I  have  ever  talked 
intimately — and  I  have  talked  with  many,  from 
President  down  to  policeman.] 

With  my  rising  wrath  against  the  railroad  men 
surged  up  another  anger — one  not  so  well  justified 
and  as  yet  poorly  defined — an  anger  against  the 
Pharisaical  attitude  of  the  newspaper-reading  public 
which  would  have  turned  thumbs  down  on  me  if  I 
had  been  caught  in  a  "woman  affair."  ...  I  fancied 
myself  defending  Mrs.  Conway  from  the  leering 
curiosity  of  the  mob.  Out  of  my  imaginary  heroics 
came  a  warm  glow  of  pleasure.  What  happy  pain 
it  would  be  to  bare  my  breast  to  the  arrows  shot 
at  her!  The  thought  of  the  unhappiness  of  her  as 
sumed  position  did  not  disturb  this  musing  for  some 
time!  Then  I  spent  another  hour  dreaming  around 
Irma.  I  did  not  deliberately  fix  my  thoughts  upon 
her,  but  let  them  drift  in  her  vicinity;  after  which  I 
decided  that  I  ought  to  write  to  Mary  and  tell  her 
all  about  the  dinner.  This  I  did. 

Duty  performed,  I  went  back  to  contemplation  of 
politics  and  Irma.  The  combination  may  seem 
strange  but  the  association  is  reasonable.  There  is 
a  natural  desire  in  the  male  to  strut  before  the  female 
of  his  adoration.  Whether  in  business,  society  or 
politics  the  phenomenon  is  constant.  Individual 
vanity,  reinforced  by  the  sex  motive,  is  a  perennial 
breeder  of  ambition.  My  most  successful  strutting 
had  been  political,  with  Jeannette  and  Mary  as 
conspicuous  figures  in  the  assumed  audience.  But 
Jeannette  had  married  and  so  had  Mary!  I  had 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  185 

undertaken  heavy  burdens  and  had  lost  interest  in 
the  drama  for  a  while.  Now  Irma  Conway  had 
become  at  least  a  potential  audience.  My  thought 
flickered  back  and  forth  between  Illinois  and  Wash 
ington. 

A  few  days  before,  I  had  received  a  letter  from 
Chuck  Dunham,  my  college-mate  who  now  lived  in 
Springfield.  It  was  written  in  his  persistent  vein 
of  pessimism. 

"Glad  to  see  you  are  getting  so  much  publicity  in  your 
railroad  fight,"  it  ran.  "Don't  suppose  anything  can  be  ac 
complished  of  permanent  value.  Whole  system  of  private 
ownership  is  wrong  but  public  ownership  with  control  in 
these  political  hams  would  be  worse.  Speaking  of  politics 
I  heard  your  name  mentioned  recently  as  a  possible  candi 
date  for  Governor — also  another  rumor  that  you  were  going 
to  run  for  Congress.  Don't  know  which  place  you  would 
fill  worse,  but  I  haven't  heard  of  anyone  who  would  do  less 
harm  as  Governor,  so  if  you  want  a  little  boom  launched 
just  give  me  a  tip  and  I'll  blow  up  a  red,  white  and  blue 
balloon  for  you." 

Of  course,  "Governor"  appealed  to  me  far  more 
than  "Congressman."  Yet — I  might  be  elected  to 
Congress!  I  had  no  chance  to  be  Governor.  That 
I  knew.  Also  if  I  came  to  Congress  there  would 
be  the  Washington  audience  —  including  Irma ! 
Then  came  a  prick  of  conscience — or  regret?  There 
was  Mary.  Was  I  forgetting  her,  belittling  her  in 
my  mind  through  a  sudden  infatuation?  Another 
reaction  followed.  Just  because  I  was  married,  did 
that  mean  that  no  other  woman  except  my  wife 


1 86  A  RADICAL   RE-BORN 

should  be  allowed  to  influence  my  life?  How  absurd ! 
A  married  man  and  woman  can't  deny  the  power  of  a 
world  of  other  men  and  women  to  affect  their  indi 
vidual  acts  and  their  married  existence.  I  knew  all 
too  well  that  Mary's  ideas  of  what  I  was  and  what 
I  was  not  were  shaped  largely  by  her  likings  for 
other  men.  Just  where  I  should  draw  the  line  in 
letting  my  thoughts  run  to  and  with  Irma  I  did  not 
know.  But  I  knew  they  would  run.  That  was  a 
fact.  My  only  duty  was  not  to  let  them  run  too  far. 

During  the  succeeding  ten  weeks  I  spent  most  of 
my  time  in  Washington  and  I  saw  a  great  deal  of 
Irma — far  more  than  I  confessed  in  my  letters 
home.  We  became  very  friendly,  but  never  a  caress 
passed  between  us,  unless  the  unconcealed  affection 
in  my  eyes  might  be  so  regarded.  We  talked  quite 
frankly  about  our  ideas  of  each  other — or  at  least 
we  pretended  to  do  so.  Of  course,  I  lied  when  I 
emphasized  exclusively  the  mental  delight  I  found 
in  association  with  her,  and  impliedly  denied  the 
violent  pulsing  of  my  veins  whenever  I  even  antici 
pated  being  in  her  presence.  I  hoped  she  lied  to 
me  when  she  said: 

"You're  such  a  comfort  to  me,  Rodney.  Really 
you  are  the  first  man  who  ever  showed  any  interest 
in  me  without  making  love  to  me.  Please  don't  lose 
that  charm!" 

"Do  you  ever  seen  any  danger  signs?"  I  suggested. 

"Not  exactly  danger  signs,"  she  bantered.  "No 
signs  of  an  irrepressible  urge  to  be  foolish.  But 
sometimes  there  are  hints  as  though  perhaps  you 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  187 

thought  it  discourteous  to  me  to  seem  indifferent  to 
what  Gene  calls  my  'venerable  charms.'  ' 

"I  shouldn't  mind  that  form  of  discourtesy,"  I 
replied  abruptly.  "I  have  always  been  discourteous 
that  way  to  women  I  didn't  care  for.  But  I'm  not  in 
different!" 

There  was  a  considerable  pause,  while  I  shook 
inwardly,  feeling  like  a  small  boy  who  has  defied 
his  teacher.  She  looked  at  me  steadily  from  half- 
closed  eyes,  the  shadow  of  a  smile  coming  to  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  Finally,  I  flung  up  my  hands. 

"I  surrender!"  I  called  out.  "I'll  never  do  it 
again.  But  that  wasn't  lovemaking.  I  just  said  I 
wasn't  indifferent — and  I'm  not.  I  won't  pretend 
I  am.  I  couldn't  be  self-respecting  and  indifferent. 
I'd  know  there  was  something  wrong  with  me  if  I 
couldn't  take  pleasure  in  looking  at  you." 

She  pointed  her  finger  at  me  as  though  aiming  a 
gun. 

"Keep  your  hands  up,"  she  commanded,  suddenly 
rising.  Naturally  I  also  stood  up.  She  walked 
slowly  towards  me,  approaching  by  small  steps  until 
she  stood  directly  before  me  with  her  face  so  near 
that  I  could  feel  the  light  breath  from  her  parted 
lips.  She  put  both  hands  momentarily  on  my  shoul 
ders  and  lifted  herself  on  tiptoes,  looking  deep  into 
my  eyes  for  a  few  maddening  seconds  while  I  strove 
with  myself  to  keep  my  hands  above  my  head  despite 
an  onrushing  desire  to  seize  her  in  my  arms. 

Then  she  stepped  back  quickly  and  clapped  her 
hands. 


1 88  A  RADICAL  RE-BORN 

"Spell's  broken,"  she  announced,  walking  toward 
the  door.  "You're  as  safe  as  a  church — on  fire!" 

Before  I  could  say  a  word  she  ran  out,  returning 
in  a  few  minutes  with  Miss  Stevenson — and  from 
that  time  until  some  others  arrived,  who  had  been 
invited  to  play  cards,  I,  who  had  come  early  inten 
tionally,  had  not  another  word  with  her  alone. 
Somehow — I  may  be  wrong — I  felt  that  she  would 
have  been  more  flattered,  even  if  not  otherwise 
pleased,  if  I  had  not  been  so  docile.  One  of  my 
many  weaknesses  as  a  lady's  man  is  my  readiness  to 
assume  that  a  woman  wants  what  she  apparently 
indicates.  Since  it  is  a  feminine  characteristic  to 
accomplish  purposes  by  indirect  methods  if  possible, 
I  err  continually  by  doing  what  I  am  asked  to  do 
instead  of  stopping  to  figure  out  what  is  really 
desired. 


When  the  hearings  before  the  Commission 
reached  the  final  week,  I  asked  Mary  to  join  me  in 
Washington,  with  the  plan  of  taking  a  brief  vacation 
in  the  South  before  returning  to  Chicago.  The 
result  was  that  Mary  and  I  and  Gene  and  Irma  did 
quite  a  little  pleasuring  in  and  around  Washington 
for  a  few  days  after  the  close  of  the  work  before 
the  Commission.  The  effect  of  Mary  and  Irma  upon 
each  other  was  quite  entertaining,  though  often  a 
bit  uncomfortable.  Of  course,  Mary  had  a  very 
clear  conception  of  my  interest  in  Irma  and  it  seemed 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  189 

by  way  of  contrast  that  she  adopted  an  extra  con 
servatism  in  speech  and  action.  On  the  other  hand, 
Irma  became  far  more  unconventional  than  at  any 
time  before  Mary's  arrival. 

Under  Irma's  stimulation  Gene's  normal  reckless 
ness  of  talk  became  more  pronounced,  and  it  ap 
peared  to  me  that  Irma  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in 
encouraging  conversations  which  really  shocked 
Mary's  sense  of  propriety  and  good  taste.  Despite 
my  quite  honest  harmony  with  Mary's  feelings  she 
constantly  accused  me  of  having  my  judgment  cor 
rupted  by  previous  association  with  them.  My 
assurances  that  Irma  was  deliberately  exceeding  her 
own  usual  limitations  for  the  purpose  of  shocking 
Mary,  met  incredulous  smiles. 

"You  must  have  been  having  quite  a  gay  time  with 
your  dark-eyed  siren,"  said  Mary  late  one  evening 
when  we  had  returned  to  our  room. 

"Oh,  it's  exasperating!"  I  retorted.  "You  two 
women  are  both  being  as  unreal  as  possible.  I 
never  had  any  such  talks  with  Irma  as  occur  in  this 
present  foursome.  In  fact,  she  has  always  stopped 
Gene  very  abruptly  when  his  fool  tongue  began 
wagging  loosely.  And  you,  who  have  always  held 
your  own  in  any  gay  company,  pour  oil  on  the  fire 
by  acting  like  a  Sunday  school  teacher  distributing 
tracts  to  chorus  girls.  You  simply  incite  Gene  and 
Irma  to  shock  you  all  the  more." 

"I'm  older  than  I  used  to  be,"  she  answered. 
"Just  as  you  are,  only  you  seem  to  forget  it." 

"Well,  we're  going  south  day  after  to-morrow," 


190  A   RADICAL   RE-BORN 

I  said,  restraining  myself  from  further  debate.  "So 
after  to-morrow  night  you  won't  have  to  suffer  any 
longer." 

An  hour  later  I  was  lying  awake,  cursing  my  weak 
ness  in  taking  coffee  with  our  late  supper,  when  an 
arm  came  out  of  the  darkness  and  drew  my  head 
over  to  a  warm  face  on  which  I  felt  traces  of  tears. 

"You're  not  really  in  love  with  that  woman,  arc 
you,  Rodney?"  she  said. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  I  answered,  not  wishing  to  start 
any  discussion  as  to  just  what  she  meant  by  the 
word  "love."  "I  like  her  very  much  in  certain  ways, 
but,  if  this  answers  your  question,  I  haven't  the 
faintest  desire  to  be  married  to  her.  I  don't  want 
to  be  married  to  anyone  but  you.  That  is  absolutely 
honest  and  if  you  would  only  believe  it,  it  would 
save  a  lot  of  unhappiness." 

"I  do  believe  it,"  she  whispered,  "but  I'm  not  sure 
that  is  everything.  You  don't  feel  the  same  way 
toward  me  as  you  use  to.  Of  course,  you  can't  help 
it,  but  you  use  to  take  so  much  interest  in  little  things 
that  now  you  take  for  granted.  You  use  to  do  little 
things,  like  bringing  home  flowers  and  massaging 
my  neck  when  my  head  was  tired.  It's  the  little 
things  that  count  with  women,  Rodney.  They  mean 
so  much.  I'm  not  really  jealous  of  Mrs.  Conway. 
I'm  just  jealous  of  your  thought  and  interest.  I 
thought  it  would  be  all  for  me  and  now  I'm  not  in 
teresting  to  you.  You  wander  away.  Maybe  Mrs. 
Conway  attracts  you  to-day,  maybe  someone  else 
will  to-morrow.  But  what  hurts  me  is  that  it  isn't 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  191 

I — that  I'm  not  first.  I'm  just  someone  around, 
whom  you  like  a  little." 

"No,  a  great  deal,"  I  interrupted. 

"Perhaps  even  a  great  deal — but  not  very  in 
tensely.  When  I  think  that  you'll  never  care  for  me 
again  the  way  you  used  to  care,  it  makes  me  very 
blue!" 

I  protested  as  best  I  could.  Of  course,  her  feeling 
was  half  true,  half  false.  The  wild  thrill  of  opening 
romance  would  not  come  again  and  could  not  come 
again,  any  more  than  one  could  wish  back  the  red 
dawn,  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  We  had  passed 
that  time.  As  the  sculptor  has  graven  it,  Time 
stands  still.  We  pass  on.  We  cannot  hurry  our 
steps  and  catch  up  with  our  youth.  It  is  behind  us 
and  we  have  no  power  to  go  back.  Mary  and  I 
must  go  on  to  new  thrills  and  different  joys — perhaps 
higher  but  less  rich  inspirations  and  more  placid 
pleasures.  I  tried  to  make  this  viewpoint  cheerful 
to  the  doubting  Mary,  but  still  doubting  she  fell 
asleep. 

My  mind  kept  on  along  the  same  path.  Yes,  we 
must  go  on  to  new  thrills.  I  realized  that  the  fever 
in  my  veins  at  thought  of  Irma  was  not  the  old  thrill 
such  as  I  had  felt  for  Mary  or  for  Jeannette.  For 
one  thing  it  had  a  flavor  of  wrong  in  it,  which,  philo 
sophically,  I  would  deny  but  which,  emotionally, 
persisted.  It  was  not  that  I  thought  it  wrong  to  care 
for  any  woman  except  my  wife.  Nothing  seems  to 
me  more  stupid  than  the  theory  that  in  a  world  of 
millions  each  man  and  woman  finds  in  the  hazard 


i92  A  RADICAL  RE-BORN 

of  marriage  the  best  possible  companion  on  earth, 
the  one  to  whom  he  has  the  most  to  give  and  who 
has  the  most  to  give  to  him.  But  unless  a  marriage 
prove  utterly  impossible  it  does  seem  reasonable  to 
believe  that  a  man  and  woman  can  get  more  out  of 
one  long  intensive  comradeship  than  out  of  many 
transient  associations. 

Thus  a  married  man  and  woman  need  to  be  on 
guard  against  endangering  their  one  great  research 
with  other  futile  experiments.  It  is  this  guarding 
sense  that  gives  a  true  flavor  of  wrong  to  my  strong 
interest  in  Irma.  My  attitude  may  seem  wicked  and 
sinful  to  orthodox  moralists  but  I  shall  try  to  express 
it  candidly.  If  I  thought  that  Mary  and  I  were  a 
partnership  failure  and  hence  that  there  must  be 
sometime  a  new  mating,  or  else  that  the  possible 
growth  of  our  lives  would  be  stunted,  and  if  I 
thought  also  that  Irma  and  I  might  be  a  partnership 
success,  it  seemed  as  though  my  desire  for  her  might 
lose  entirely  the  flavor  of  wrong.  But  the  fact  was 
that  Mary  and  I  seemed  to  me  a  fairly  good  team 
— and  apparently  Mary  thought  so  too.  The  fact 
was  that  I  would  regard  marriage  with  Irma  as  a 
distinctly  hazardous  experiment.  I  would  be 
tempted  to  risk  the  experiment,  if  she  were  equally 
adventurous,  and  if  I  were  free.  But,  not  being  free, 
I  regarded  Mary  as  a  very  fortunate  check  on  any 
such/reckless  venture. 

There  was  a  wild  strain  in  Irma  that  was  fascinat 
ing  in  a  playmate  but  probably  would  be  most  dis 
comforting  in  a  wife.  My  hand  moved  gently  across 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  193 

Mary's  shoulder.  She  was  such  a  comfortable  com 
panion.  Really  I  was  very  fond  of  her.  Our  life 
together  was  peaceful  and  soothing.  I  had  enough 
big  game  hunting  to  do  in  earning  a  living.  To  fight 
business  tigers  was  exciting  work,  but  to  attempt  to 
domesticate  a  tigress  might  be  a  most  uncertain 
pleasure.  .  .  ,  About  this  time  I  fell  asleep. 


Mary  and  I,  Pillar  Grayson  and  his  wife,  Gene 
Halliwell  and  Irma  were  dining  together  the  next 
evening  at  our  hotel  when  a  bell-boy  laid  a  telegram 
before  me.  It  was  a  long  message  signed  with 
twenty-five  names,  some  personally  well-known  to 
me,  others  recognized  only  by  reputation.  They 
were  a  committee  of  organization  representing  an 
insurgent  Republican  movement  that  was  spreading 
across  the  country  and  had  recently  stirred  up  Illinois 
politics  considerably.  I  was  informed  in  the  usual 
broad  language  of  political  announcements  that  the 
progressive  Republicans  of  Illinois  desired  me  to  act 
as  standard-bearer  in  the  forthcoming  fight  and  be 
their  candidate  for  the  Republican  nomination  for 
Governor. 

I  passed  the  message  over  to  Grayson. 

"You  see  I'm  still  stealing  your  laurels,"  I  re 
marked.  "This  is  really  your  fight  that  we've  been 
making,  but  I  am  getting  all  the  glory." 

He  read  it  carefully  and  responded  with  his  usual 
generosity  and  optimism. 


i94  A  RADICAL   RE-BORN 

"That's  splendid,"  he  answered.  "You've  been 
doing  a  great  job  and  here's  a  chance  for  a  bigger 
one." 

"There  isn't  even  a  fighting  chance  to  win,"  I  re 
marked. 

"Maybe  not,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  you  can't  be 
sure,  but  I  should  say  probably  not.  But  think  of 
the  chance  to  stir  things  up,  to  educate  the  people 
to  understand  what  is  being  done  to  them." 

"Educational  campaigns  cost  money,"  I  suggested. 
"Just  good  intentions  and  a  loud  voice  won't  do. 
It  would  take  a  fortune  to  make  a  real  campaign." 

"One  hundred  thousand?" 

"Nearer  two  hundred  thousand,  I  think,  to  make 
a  real  impression." 

"Look  at  that  list  of  names."  He  retrieved  the 
telegram  from  Irma  who  was  reading  it  with  shining 
eyes.  "There's  McCanlif  and  Watterson  and  Peas- 
ley.  They  could  put  up  the  whole  amount  and  never 
miss  it." 

"Yes,  but  would  they?  You  know  how  it  always 
goes.  Wealthy  men  don't  like  to  throw  their  money 
away.  They  might  contribute  Ten  Thousand  apiece. 
Then  they  would  watch  and  see  how  things  were 
going.  The  old  politicians  and  their  pals  would  tell 
them  we  hadn't  a  chance;  and  they  would  shut  up 
their  purses.  Of  course,  if  they  thought  we  could 
win — they'd  give  us  all  the  money  we  needed.  But 
they  won't  plunge  heavily  on  losers." 

"I  don't  understand  all  this  money  talk,"  broke  in 
Irma  impatiently.  "You  don't  buy  votes,  do  you?" 


A  RADICAL   RE-BORN  195 

"No,"  I  answered  slowly,  "you  don't  buy  votes 
exactly  but  you  can't  even  get  your  story  to  the 
voters  without  money.  Just  think  what  halls  and 
bands  and  bill-boards  and  printing  and  letters  cost, 
when  you  are  trying  to  reach  a  million  voters.  To 
talk  to  one-tenth  of  them  means  a  very  expensive 
speaking  and  advertising  campaign.  Just  figure  the 
cost  of  one  letter  to  a  million  men:  Suppose  it's  one 
cent  for  printing  and  another  cent  for  getting  lists, 
addressing,  mailing  and  so  forth,  and  a  two-cent 
stamp  on  the  envelope.  That's  four  cents  apiece,  or 
Forty  Thousand  Dollars.  Then  take  newspaper 
advertising.  You  could  use  Fifty  Thousand  Dollars 
over  the  State  of  Illinois  and  half  the  voters  wouldn't 
even  learn  that  you  were  running.  You  need  money 
first,  last  and  all  the  time  in  a  political  campaign. 
Without  it  your  effort  is  a  waste  of  energy." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  even  consider  it,"  said 
Mary  plaintively.  "You  have  to  spend  all  you  make 
as  it  is,  Rodney,  and  a  campaign  would  stop  your 
work,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Of  course  I  can't  afford  it,"  I  answered  promptly. 
"In  fact,  I'm  not  seriously  considering  it,  for  that 
reason." 

"Oh,  woof!  woof!"  interrupted  Irma,  with  the 
light  of  battle  in  her  eyes.  "If  a  man  never  risks 
anything  he  never  wins  anything.  You  wouldn't  go 
broke  in  one  campaign,  Rodney.  Think  of  all  the 
money  that  the  papers  have  said  you  are  making 
out  of  this  railroad  case!  You  showed  me  one  ar 
ticle  where  it  said  you  were  taking  a  fortune  from 


196  A   RADICAL   RE-BORN 

the  people,  and  asked  what  they  were  going  to  get 
back.  Now  here's  the  answer.  The  price  is  cheap 
for  one  good  Governor!" 

I  laughed  and  shook  my  head  at  her. 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  young  lady,  that  I 
didn't  get  that  money,  because  I  bored  you  for  half 
an  hour  one  evening  telling  you  about  the  enormous 
bills  for  engineers  and  accountants  and  statisticians 
and  other  expenses  which  were  included  in  that, 
'One  Hundred  Thousand  Dollars  Paid  to  Rodney 
Merrill' — which  the  newspapers  headlined." 

"I'm  just  joking,  you  know,"  she  replied,  "and 
Mrs.  Merrill  must  excuse  me  for  even  discussing 
your  personal  affairs.  Of  course  you  know  what 
you  can  afford  to  do,  and  I  don't;  but  it  does  seem 
to  me  to  be  such  a  splendid  opportunity.  Even 
from  the  money  point  of  view  I  should  think  it 
would  give  you  a  bigger  standing  as  a  lawyer  to  be 
a  candidate  for  Governor.  It  just  thrills  me  to  talk 
of  it." 

"Running  for  office  isn't  as  good  a  professional 
advertisement  as  you  think.  It  might  do  some  good. 
It  would  be  sure  to  do  some  harm.  Worst  of  all 
it  would  discredit  my  railroad  work.  The  railroad 
people  would  say  that  my  fight  on  them  was  just 
political — that  I  had  been  attacking  them  as  a  means 
of  boosting  myself  into  office." 

The  six  of  us  argued  the  matter  over  through  the 
remainder  of  dinner.  Then  we  went  to  the  theater. 
Between  the  acts  Irma  on  one  side  and  Aileen  Gray- 
son  on  the  other  urged  me  to  go  into  the  fight. 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  197 

Every  now  and  then  I  intercepted  a  pathetic  look 
from  Mary  who  was  feebly  opposing  Pillar  and 
Gene  in  their  efforts  to  break  down  her  opposition. 
Poor  Mary!  Just  as  we  were  getting  on  sound 
financial  ground,  where  there  would  be  more  ease 
for  her  and  more  of  the  little  luxuries  so  dear  to 
her  heart,  she  saw  my  friends  persuading  me  to  turn 
back  into  the  morass  of  debt.  Furthermore,  Mary 
dreaded  publicity.  She  shuddered  when  the  news 
papers  attacked  me.  Even  when  I  was  praised  she 
shrank  from  the  headlines  and  felt  apologetic  in  the 
presence  of  joking  friends  who  rallied  me  no  my 
success  as  a  self-advertiser. 

When  the  evening  was  over  and  we  had  returned 
to  our  room  she  prepared  herself  for  bed  in  an 
ominous  silence. 

"You  needn't  look  so  tragic,"  I  said  finally.  "I 
don't  think  I'll  do  it.  I'm  just  taking  time  to  think 
It  all  over." 

"You'll  do  it,"  she  answered.  "They  all  want 
you  to,  and  their  opinions  count  for  more  than 
mine." 

"My  dear,  there  isn't  anyone  whose  opinion  is 
half  so  important  to  me  as  yours.  In  whatever  I  do 
you  must  be  a  fellow-sufferer  or  a  fellow-enjoyer.  I 
haven't  any  right  to  disregard  your  opinion  and  I 
don't  intend  to  do  so.  If  you  say  'no,'  after  think 
ing  it  over  and  talking  it  over  carefully,  I'll  tell  you 
right  now  that  I  won't  do  it.  My  own  opinion  is 
so  uncertain  that  I  could  not  feel  sure  that  you  were 
wrong.  And  so  I  could  not  possibly  say  'yes.'  If 


i98  A  RADICAL  RE-BORN 

I  were  positive  as  to  what  I  ought  to  do  I  might  feel 
it  necessary  to  oppose  even  you.  But  I'm  not  sure 
and  I  can't  be.  So  in  the  end  you  are  going  to  decide 
this  question,  old  lady.  You  had  better  accept  the 
responsibility.  It  may  weigh  heavily  upon  you  if 
you  decide  against  our  best  interest." 

We  talked  interminably — mostly  ineffectively,  in 
speculations  that  arrived  nowhere — until  finally 
somehow  we  fell  asleep.  When  I  awoke  in  the 
morning  she  was  already  half-dressed,  sitting  before 
her  dressing  table  and  trying  with  great  care  some 
new  method  of  doing  up  her  hair.  Her  eyelids 
seemed  a  trifle  red  but  she  smiled  cheerily  as  she 
saw  that  I  was  awake.  Then  she  danced  over  and 
posed  herself  most  charmingly  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  In  her  delicate  lingerie,  decorated  with  little 
bow  knots  of  pink  ribbon,  with  her  pretty  silk-clad 
legs  half  curled  under  her  and  half-revealed,  her 
reddish  brown  hair  artfully  disarranged  and  her  blue 
eyes  radiantly  kind,  she  made  an  enticing  picture. 

"How  is  the  Governor  this  morning?"  she  in 
quired  with  a  dainty  affectation  of  solemnity. 

"He  isn't  going  to  be  Governor  at  all,"  I  retorted, 
lifting  myself  to  a  sitting  position.  "He  has  decided 
that  he  would  rather  be  Mary's  good  boy  than  any 
thing  else." 

I  put  my  arms  around  her  and  rumpled  that  new 
coiffure  recklessly. 

"He  shall  be  Mary's  good  boy,"  she  announced, 
disengaging  herself  for  a  moment  and  sitting  up  very 


A  RADICAL  RE-BORN  199 

straight.     "And  also  he  shall  be  Governor.     Mary 
wants  her  good  boy  to  be  Governor." 

Thus  the  great  decision  was  made,  although  I  put 
it  in  somewhat  different  language  in  my  reply  to  the 
telegram  from  the  eminent  committee  of  insurgents. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT" 

MY  campaign  is  ended.  My  vote  was  even 
smaller  than  the  pessimists  expected.  What 
has  been  accomplished  seems  on  the  surface 
to  be  trivial.  Yet  I  have  a  feeling  that  great  changes 
are  impending  and  perhaps  we  have  builded  better 
than  we  knew.  It  would  be  tiresome  to  detail  the 
exhausting  weeks  during  which  I  traveled  up  and 
down  the  State  of  Illinois  talking,  shaking  hands, 
sitting  in  smoky  conferences,  sometimes  discussing 
strategies  and  principles — but  always  carrying  the 
burden  of  money  problems.  I  had  pictured  a 
candidate  as  a  man  preparing  speeches  and  state 
ments  and  debating  policies.  I  found  that  one  of  a 
candidate's  main  duties  is  to  assist  in  money  raising; 
and  another  is  to  settle  disputes  as  to  how  money 
shall  be  spent. 

If  Mr.  Jones  shows  an  inclination  to  give  Five 
Hundred  Dollars  he  must  be  hurried  in  for  a  final 
hypnosis  by  the  candidate.  If  Jack  and  Jim  are  in 
a  row  over  their  appropriate  shares  of  funds,  con 
sidering  the  strength  of  their  organizations  and  the 
voting  power  of  their  districts,  and  the  manager  can 
not  harmonize  them — let  the  candidate  decide !  Of 


200 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'          201 

course,  theoretically  a  candidate  should  have  nothing 
to  do  with  these  matters ;  but  in  a  raw  political  group 
such  as  usually  controls  insurgent  movements  the 
candidate  is  called  on  to  do  all  the  things  he 
shouldn't  do  as  well  as  all  the  things  he  should. 

Another  excitement  of  campaigning  was  supplied 
by  our  exceptionally  inefficient  speakers'  bureau, 
through  which  all  public  meetings  were  arranged. 
For  example,  an  enthusiast  from  Bloomington 
promised  a  huge  meeting,  whereupon  without  check 
ing  up  on  his  promises  the  largest  hall  available  was 
engaged,  a  brass  band  provided  and  an  "automobile 
parade"  arranged.  The  meeting  was  set  for  a  Sat 
urday  night  when  every  possible  counter-attraction 
competed  for  attendance — including  a  fraternal  con 
vention  with  a  parade  of  its  own.  Our  meeting  was 
atrociously  under-advertised.  Bloomington  was  a 
difficult  town  for  us  anyhow  because  all  important 
local  politicians  were  solidly  against  us. 

The  result  of  this  blundering  was  a  "parade" 
which  consisted  of  three  automobiles  and  a  brass 
band  followed  by  a  crowd  of  jeering  boys.  The 
local  police  kindly  forced  us  to  detour  around  the 
principal  street  which  was  reserved  for  the  fraternal 
parade.  So  we  "paraded"  up  a  quiet  side  street  to 
a  large  hall  where  a  reception  committee  of  seven 
glowered  from  the  platform  at  a  vindictive  audience 
of  possibly  fifty  "fellow-citizens."  Of  course  we 
would  have  polled  more  votes  in  Bloomington  if  we 
had  had  no  meeting,  because  we  must  have  lost 
heavily  by  this  fiasco. 


202          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

At  times  there  were  pleasant  surprises,  meetings 
that  were  a  success  despite  all  possible  faults  of 
management.  This  was  what  occurred  in  Spring 
field.  The  story  is  worth  telling  because  the  meet 
ing,  while  a  spectacular  success  from  the  public  point 
of  view,  was  even  more  important  to  me  as  a  per 
sonal  experience  which  is  likely  to  have  some  lasting 
consequences. 

The  afternoon  before  the  evening  engagement  in 
Springfield  I  spent  in  a  dismal  automobile  tour 
through  nearby  towns.  We  would  drive  into  a  small 
village  in  our  open  car.  Our  cornetist  would  arise 
and  play  "Baby  Mine"  or  some  equally  appropriate 
and  inspiring  tune,  whereby  we  expected  to  gather 
a  crowd.  I  had  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  this  musi 
cian  to  attempt  some  gay  or  martial  music.  But  he 
was  an  old  campaigner  and  could  not  or  would  not 
change  his  technique.  "Silver  Threads  Among  the 
Gold"  and  "Massa's  in  the  Cold,  Cold,  Ground" 
were  his  specialties  and  no  upstart  candidate  could 
tell  him  what  to  play!  Once  on  my  insistence  for 
military  tunes  he  did  consent  to  render  "Just  Before 
the  Battle,  Mother."  After  that  I  was  glad  to 
accept  "Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold." 

Following  the  cornet  selection  our  introducer, 
whose  sole  qualification  was  a  voice  like  a  fire  gong, 
would  inform  the  assembled  multitude  of  Main 
Street  idlers  that  "the  next  Governor  of  Illinois" 
would  address  them.  Then  I  would  torture  my 
weary  and  inflamed  vocal  cords  for  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  for  the  benefit  of  a  small,  shifting  group  of 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'  203 

dull-eyed  men  whose  interest  in  "the  next  Governor" 
was  obviously  quite  casual.  Another  member  of  the 
party  would  mingle  with  the  crowd,  passing  out 
pamphlets  which  we  hoped  might  lengthen  the  cam 
paign  discussion  for  a  time  after  our  departure.  At 
the  finish  of  my  speech  there  would  be  usually  a 
feeble  burst  of  applause,  artificially  stimulated  by 
the  cornetist,  who  always  waved  a  small  flag  vigor 
ously.  Under  cover  of  this  enthusiasm  I  would 
insist  on  shaking  hands  with  a  few  reluctant  auditors 
who  had  come  too  near  the  car  to  escape  my  grasp. 
Then  the  driver  would  toot  the  horn  and  drive 
rapidly  away  while  I  stood  bowing  and  waving  my 
hat  to  imaginary  cheers  from  the  populace. 

It  can  be  imagined  that  several  hours  of  this  sort 
of  thing  during  the  afternoon — following  upon  many 
previous  days  of  similar  entertainment — left  me 
somewhat  frayed  when  we  arrived  in  Springfield  in 
time  for  dinner.  At  the  hotel  I  found  a  letter  from 
Mary  which  I  laid  open  before  me  on  the  dressing 
table  to  read  while  undressing  for  a  much-desired 
bath. 

It  was  a  plaintive  message,  full  of  household 
troubles  and  personal  worries — 

"Manson  has  telephoned  twice  about  his  account.  ...  I 
know  it  seems  like  a  lot  of  money  for  one  month  but  I  had 
to  have  so  many  things  just  at  this  time.  I  didn't  realize 
how  large  the  bill  was  getting.  ...  I  told  him  you  would 
be  back  next  week,  but  if  I  could  get  a  letter  to  you  you 
might  send  a  check  sooner.  .  .  .  Father  is  not  at  all  well. 
It  worries  me  so  to  think  he  has  so  little  strength.  He  was 


204          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

always  so  strong  and  robust  looking.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to 
dinner  at  the  Fannings  on  Thursday.  I'm  almost  ashamed 
to  go.  I've  nothing  to  wear  but  that  delft  blue  that  I've 
worn  to  their  house  so  often.  .  .  .  Another  thing,  I  dread 
to  meet  people.  All  our  old  friends  make  so  much  fun  of 
the  insurgents.  The  Tribune  had  an  editorial  yesterday 
which  was  very  clever  but  very  nasty  about  your  'Vote  for 
Yourselves'  speech.  ...  I  don't  think  it  was  fair  to  you 
at  all  but  it  made  me  so  embarrassed  because  the  editorial 
was  funny  and  everywhere  I  went  yesterday  I  felt  as  though 
someone  was  laughing  at  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  do  wish  you  hadn't 
gone  into  this  campaign.  ...  Of  course  I  hope  the  meetings 
are  better  now.  .  .  .  Are  you  making  a  new  speech  at  Spring 
field  ?  I  think  the  'Crusader'  speech  is  better  than  the  'Vote 
for  Yourselves,'  don't  you?  Will  you  really  be  home  next 
Friday?  Mr.  Brown  told  me  over  the  'phone  yesterday  that 
they  needed  you  very  much  at  headquarters.  Money  is  low, 
I  believe.  Oh,  there's  never  enough  money  anywhere,  is 
there?  Best  wishes  for  success  at  Springfield.  .  .  ." 

It  was  fortunate  that  I  read  the  letter  before  bath 
ing  because  I  needed  the  relaxation  of  the  hot  water 
and  the  stimulation  of  the  cold  to  get  my  spirits  back 
to  normal.  Mary  didn't  realize  how  dreadfully  her 
letters  hurt  me.  She  wrote  just  as  she  would  talk 
if  I  were  home,  without  art  or  conscious  purpose.  It 
simply  never  occurred  to  her  to  help  me  with  my 
campaigning.  Possibly  if  someone  had  suggested 
to  her  that  campaigning  was  very  hard  work  at  best 
and  that,  under  the  conditions  I  had,  it  was  very 
depressing,  she  might  have  tried  deliberately  to  write 
cheery,  inspiring  letters.  But  I  know  that  if  I  had 
suggested  this,  she  would  have  asked  me  if  I  wanted 
her  to  be  insincere  with  me. 


"SPEND  AND   BE  SPENT'  205 

Mary  is  not  unkind  or  deliberately  selfish.  She  is 
simply  thoughtless.  She  doesn't  imagine  situations 
remote  from  herself.  If  she  had  actually  seen  me 
stagger  into  the  Springfield  hotel,  dusty,  dog-tired, 
with  a  feverish  throat  and  half  sick  from  poor  food 
and  irregular  hours  of  sleeping  and  eating,  she  would 
have  felt  sorry  and  possibly  might  have  concealed 
her  lesser  troubles  from  me.  Certainly  if  her  imagi 
nation  had  read  my  state  of  mind  she  would  not  have 
criticised  my  speech,  which  I  had  made  so  many 
scores  of  times — with  slight  variations — that  it 
simply  nauseated  me  now  every  time  I  had  to  start 
on  the  too-familiar  phrases. 

How  I  hated  that  speech !  When  I  first  wrote  it 
I  thought  it  quite  good.  Even  old  political  writers 
had  said  it  was  "good  stuff."  I  had  never  delivered 
it  to  a  fair-sized  audience  of  reasonably  friendly  dis 
position  without  getting  a  real  response.  But  oh, 
how  I  had  come  to  hate  it!  And  now  Mary  cast 
cold  water  on  it  because  some  editorial  writer  had 
been  funny  about  it! 

I  was  dressing  gloomily  when  Chuck  Dunham 
knocked  on  the  door. 

"Greatness  in  its  BVDs,"  he  remarked  as  I  let 
him  in.  "How's  the  voice  ?" 

"Doing  pretty  well,"  I  said  hoarsely.  "After 
about  five  minutes  of  warming  up  they'll  hear  me  all 
right.  What  am  I  in  for — a  frost?" 

"I  think  not,"  he  answered,  grinning  wisely. 
"Fact  is  that  I  pulled  a  little  stunt  off  here  that  may 
produce  quite  a  crowd.  See  here!" 


206          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

He  opened  a  newspaper  he  was  carrying  and  I 
read  with  some  amazement 

Merrill  to  Expose  Railroad  Lobby 

Who  Put  through  Bill  776? 

The  Little  Brown  Bag  with  Fifty  Thousand  Dollars 

"What  the  devil  is  this?"  I  asked. 

"I  have  the  whole  story  here,"  he  explained,  pro 
ducing  a  manuscript.  "One  of  my  newspaper  friends 
unearthed  it  and  came  to  me  to  supply  some  of  the 
details.  When  he  found  where  the  trail  led  he  didn't 
dare  to  spring  it  himself  and  agreed  to  let  me  give 
it  to  you.  This  afternoon's  story  only  hints  at  the 
facts,  but,  believe  me,  if  I  know  Springfield  at  all 
it  will  bring  a  mob  to  the  hall  to-night." 

Bill  776  is  now  historic  so  I'll  only  summarize  the 
exposure  that  Dunham  presented  to  me.  It  seems 
that  a  blunder  had  been  made  in  a  large  issue  of  rail 
road  bonds  and  an  act  of  the  legislature  was  neces 
sary  to  cure  the  flaw.  So  the  railroad  lawyers  had 
prepared  an  innocent-looking  bill,  apparently  just 
a  harmless  technical  amendment  to  the  railroad  laws. 
They  had  arranged  with  their  friends  to  slip  it 
through  both  houses  and  it  had  passed  the  Senate 
and  had  reached  the  final  stage  in  the  House  before 
any  but  a  few  insiders  knew  what  was  happening. 
At  the  last  moment,  however,  a  group  of  pirates  in 
the  House  had  scented  an  odor  of  graft  and  held  up 
Bill  776  until  they  could  find  out  what  was  in  it  for 
them. 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'  207 

Thereupon  the  railroad  lobbyists  had  sent  a  call 
for  help  and  a  special  agent  had  hurried  down  from 
Chicago  with  a  large  amount  of  money  to  be  used 
for  immediately  necessary  cash  payments.  Mys 
terious  conferences  had  been  held  throughout  one 
evening  between  legislators  of  questionable  reputa 
tion  and  the  man  who  had  suddenly  arrived  with  the 
"little  brown  bag."  The  next  day  Bill  776  passed 
the  House.  After  weeks  of  patient  delving  one  sus 
picious  newspaper  man  had  put  all  the  necessary 
facts  together  and  had  all  the  proof  necessary  to 
convince  the  public  of  what  had  been  done — al 
though,  as  was  afterwards  shown,  not  enough  proof 
to  convict  anyone  of  a  crime. 

Dunham  had  taken  some  chance  in  announcing 
that  I  would  tell  this  story.  But  I  guess  he  knew 
me  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  with  the  ample  evi 
dence  he  gave  me  I  would  carry  out  my  part. 

He  was  right  about  the  crowd.  The  hall  was 
packed — the  biggest  crowd  of  our  downstate  cam 
paign.  I  used  my  regular  speech  as  an  opening,  but 
in  the  middle  of  it  I  said  that  I  had  a  special  message 
to  deliver  that  night  to  the  people  of  Illinois,  a  mes 
sage  that  it  seemed  appropriate  to  announce  in 
Springfield  where  the  legislature  made  laws  for  the 
people — laws  presumably  for  all  the  people — but 
laws  which  were  very  often  only  intended  to  benefit 
a  part  of  the  people.  Then  I  told  the  story  of  Bill 
776  to  a  crowd  so  dramatically  silent  that  the 
strained  attention  gradually  stimulated  my  own  tired 
nerves  to  a  new  enthusiasm.  When  I  finished  this 


208          "SPEND  AND   BE  SPENT' 

revelation,  I  had  the  curiously  exultant  feeling  that 
comes  to  anyone  accustomed  to  audiences  when  he 
knows  that  he  has  his  crowd  with  him.  The  facts 
were  so  overwhelming  that  no  enemy  would  have 
dared  even  a  disapproving  gesture. 

I  laid  down  the  papers  from  which  I  had  been 
quoting  and,  leaving  the  speaker's  table,  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  platform. 

"I've  made  my  speech,"  I  said.  "I've  told  you 
who  is  running  the  State  of  Illinois.  I've  given  you 
some  new  proofs.  Now  I'm  going  to  talk  with  you, 
man  to  man,  and  ask  you  what  we  are  going  to  do 
about  it.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  want  to  do 
and  I'm  going  to  ask  you  if  you  will  help  me." 

As  I  leaned  out  above  the  footlights,  looking  over 
the  crowd,  my  eyes  found  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who 
was  sitting  half-way  down  the  hall  just  off  the  center 
aisle.  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  face  partly  hid 
den  by  the  head  of  the  man  in  front  of  her.  As 
our  eyes  met  I  knew  her — for  one  staggering 
moment.  Then  the  delusion  passed.  It  couldn't  be. 
And  yet — I  shook  myself  free.  My  long  pause 
had  only  intensified  the  dramatic  feeling  between 
me  and  my  listeners. 

"Man  to  man,"  I  began  slowly,  "let  us  ask:  What 
are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  Then  I  made  my 
"lost  speech,"  so  called  because  I  had  never  made 
it  before  and  there  was  no  stenographer  to  take  it 
down.  I  must  have  talked  nearly  an  hour  more. 
I'm  sure  that  not  a  person  left  the  hall.  For  a  time 
there  was  no  applause.  Then  the  tension  lifted 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'  209 

enough  so  that  there  came  brief  handclaps — then 
longer  salvos  with  scattering  shouts.  At  last  I 
stopped.  I  had  no  calculated  ending  but  I  remember 
saying:  "I  didn't  enter  this  fight  expecting  that  this 
first  revolt  against  the  old  order  would  win.  We 
are  talking  man  to  man:  I  wouldn't  try  to  deceive 
you  any  more  than  I  would  try  to  deceive  myself. 
I  came  into  this  fight  to  strike  a  blow  for  the  things 
in  which  I  believe,  for  the  things  in  which  you  be 
lieve. 

"To-night  you  and  I  know  that  we  have  a  com 
mon  cause.  To-morrow  I  shall  bear  away  from 
here  not  my  message  but  our  message,  not  my  faith 
but  our  faith.  I  am  only  a  torch-bearer,  carrying 
the  flame  of  American  ideals  from  one  community 
to  another,  seeking  to  kindle  anew  in  hearts  that  have 
been  chilled  by  the  selfishness  and  greed  of  false 
public  servants,  the  fire  of  faith  in  the  honesty  and 
justice  of  democratic  government.  And  in  that  faith 
we  shall  struggle  on  through  the  night — though  the 
night  may  be  long — and  we  shall  fight  as  men  have 
had  to  fight  throughout  the  ages  against  the  powers 
of  darkness — until  at  last  victory  'cometh  in  the 
morning.'  ' 

For  a  moment  I  stood  silent,  feeling  utterly  spent, 
and  then  the  storm  broke.  Never  did  I  hear  richer 
music  than  the  roar  of  that  crowd.  Think  of  the 
feelings  of  a  man  who  had  shouted  in  village  after 
village  to  slim,  unresponsive  street  gatherings,  feel 
ing  like  a  quack  medicine  vendor,  and  wondering  in 
wardly  if  perhaps  he  were  a  faker,  who  had  come 


210          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

at  the  end  of  weary  days  into  a  city  notorious  for 
its  justifiable  cynicism  as  to  all  public  men,  the  state 
capital,  the  scene  of  uncounted  betrayals  of  public 
trust,  who  had  related  an  almost  incredible  story  of 
wrong  to  an  audience  wherein  sat  many  of  the  wrong 
doers  themselves,  who  had  thrown  aside  his  safe, 
prepared  speech  and  risked  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment — and  then  at  the  end  had  carried  his  hearers 
beyond  even  his  own  enthusiasm!  It  came  to  me 
suddenly  that  I  had  saved  myself  as  well  as  my 
cause,  that  the  doubters  in  Chicago,  who  had  been 
quietly  laying  the  failures  of  the  campaign  upon  my 
weakness  as  a  candidate,  would  be  completely  routed. 
In  the  face  of  this  triumph  it  would  be  hard  to  con 
tinue  to  say,  as  some  had  been  whispering,  that  the 
candidate  "made  no  popular  appeal." 

The  next  ten  minutes  was  a  swirl  of  faces.  I  felt 
men  slapping  me  on  the  back.  I  shook  several  hands 
at  once.  I  repeated  the  inane,  "thank  you"  a  hun 
dred  times.  Several  women  embarrassed  me  with 
actual  embraces.  Then  suddenly  I  met  that  woman's 
eyes  again.  In  my  semi-intoxication  it  seemed  that 
I  saw  only  the  eyes  until  I  heard  a  voice  that  lifted 
me  above  even  the  clouds  wherein  I  was  floating: 

"Oh,  Rodney,  Rodney,  that  was  wonderful!"  she 
said. 

Yes,  her  arms  were  actually  around  me.  Yet  I 
could  not  believe.  I  felt  giddy,  with  the  long  nervous 
strain  and  this  super-exaltation  at  the  end. 

"It  can't  be  Irma!"  I  stammered. 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'1  211 

Then  I  saw  Gene  Halliwell's  thin  bearded  face 
over  her  shoulder  and  heard  him  say: 

"A  nice  little  surprise  party  you  gave  us!  We 
expected  to  surprise  you,  but  you  pulled  the  real 
surprise.  We  expected  to  be  bored  to  death  and 
we've  been  going  through  emotional  agonies  for  an 
hour.  Irma  cried  for  five  minutes  when  you  were 
talking  about,  'Abraham  Lincoln  and  our  tears, 
Illinois!'" 

"Did  I  do  that?"  I  asked  in  bewilderment. 

"No  you  didn't,"  said  Irma.  "But  you  did  make 
people  cry  once.  I  wasn't  the  only  one." 

More  people  pressed  around,  but  as  soon  as  I 
could  get  free  I  went  over  to  Irma  and  Gene. 

"I'm  sane  again  now,"  I  said.  "Tell  me  how  on 
earth  you  people  happen  to  be  here." 

"We  arrived  last  Monday  for  a  house  party," 
explained  Irma.  "I  was  visiting  Grace  in  St.  Louis 
and  Gene  has  been  home  for  a  week  making  life 
miserable  for  us.  We  had  talked  of  going  to  hear 
you  when  you  went  into  southern  Illinois.  Then 
this  Springfield  invitation  came — we  are  staying  with 
the  Kendricks — and  we  thought  we  wouldn't  let  you 
know  we  were  here.  We  brought  the  whole  party 
over  to-night." 

"Just  made  them  come  for  fear  you  wouldn't  have 
a  crowd,"  said  Gene.  "Say,  boy,  if  you  are  gather 
ing  'em  in  this  way  at  every  stop  I'd  say  you're 
elected." 

"No  chance,"  I  answered  quickly.     "This  is  the 


212          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

first  good  meeting  I've  had  in  ten  days  and  Chuck 
Dunham  made  this  meeting.  I  want  you  to  meet 
him." 

I  wig-wagged  to  Chuck,  who  was  chating  with 
some  lingering  members  of  the  local  committee.  He 
sauntered  over  and  was  introduced.  Then  we  all 
went  back  to  the  house  party  guests  who  were  wait 
ing  in  the  rear  of  the  hall.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendricks 
insisted  that  I  come  out  to  the  house  with  them  for 
a  late  supper. 

"I  don't  think  my  campaign  manager  will  let  me," 
I  replied  reluctantly.  "Probably  I  have  a  5  145  train 
to  take  in  the  morning,  and  very  likely  some  sad 
delegation  is  waiting  at  the  hotel  to  tell  me  of  its 
woes." 

"Your  campaign  manager  has  gone  crazy,"  said 
Dunham.  "He  has  discovered  that  he  has  a  real 
candidate.  He  grabbed  all  your  notes  and  went  off 
with  the  newspaper  men  to  be  sure  they  get  the  story 
straight  on  the  wires.  He  asked  me  to  see  that  you 
got  back  to  the  hotel  all  right.  Nothing  doing  until 
a  train  at  10:45  to-morrow  morning,  he  said." 

"Hurrah!  Hurrah!"  I  cried.  "I  feel  like  a  boy 
out  of  school.  If  the  presence  of  a  cheerful  imbecile 
won't  disturb  the  house  party  I'll  be  very  glad  to 
join  you,  Mr.  Kendricks.  I  warn  you,  however, 
that  I  feel  a  bit  light-headed  after  such  an  evening." 

A  couple  of  hours  later  I  managed  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  Irma  in  the  ingle-nook  in  the  billiard  room, 
while  all  the  rest  of  the  party  were  engaged  else 
where  in  dancing  or  card  playing. 


"SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT'  213 

"The  reaction  is  coming  upon  me,  now,"  I  re 
marked.  "I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  some 
strong  emotionalism  in  that  speech  of  mine.  I 
imagine  that  I  struck  a  religious  note.  I  hope  it 
didn't  ring  false." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  she  asserted.  "I  don't 
know  how  it  would  read,  but  you  were  so  deadly  in 
earnest,  Rodney,  that  what  you  said  sounded  wonder 
ful.  It  was  like  some  prophet  of  old  thundering  on 
the  mountain." 

"I'm  not  a  very  aged  prophet,"  I  laughed. 

"You  didn't  look  young.  Really  you  looked  in 
spired.  I  was  quite  carried  off  my  feet." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  were  there." 

"I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything  in  the 
world.  I  thought  I  knew  you  but  now  I  see  that 
I  did  not." 

"Maybe  I  was  unreal  to-night." 

"No,  you  were  very  real.  I  think  that  was  your 
true  self  speaking.  Rodney,  you  are  very  self- 
conscious  ordinarily,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  am." 

"You  don't  express  yourself  as  you  are.  You 
cover  up.  To-night  you  were — well — almost  naked 
I  should  say.  You  needn't  be  ashamed  to  expose 
your  soul.  The  revelation  will  bring  people  to  you, 
because  you  really  want  to  do  good." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so.  I  think  so  sometimes, 
in  secret.  But  there  is  so  much  cant  and  hypocrisy 
that  I  dread  misunderstanding." 

"I  believe  that  is  your  great  weakness.     Pardon 


2i4          "SPEND  AND   BE  SPENT' 

me  for  being  brutally  frank.  You  dread  misunder 
standing  and  you  insure  it  by  pretending  to  be  what 
you  aren't.  You  pretend  to  be  a  cynical  man  of  the 
world.  You're  a  fanatic  idealist — and  a  boy  at 
heart." 

"With  all  a  boy's  illusions,"  I  suggested. 

"What  of  it?  Without  illusions  how  would  the 
world  go  forward?  Isn't  the  illusion  of  to-day  the 
reality  of  to-morrow?  You  said  that  to  me  once. 
Do  you  recant?" 

"No,  I  don't  recant.  Irma,  I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  This  meeting  gave  me  a  new  lease  of 
hope  to-night.  Not  a  hope  to  win.  I  can't  win. 
It  is  probably  better  that  I  shouldn't.  I'm  only 
fighting  to  prepare  the  way  for  others  who  may  win 
to-morrow.  But  you  have  done  something  more 
than  the  meeting.  You  have  given  me  a  renewed 
faith  in  life.  Let  me  try  to  explain " 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered.  Her  eyes  were  wel 
coming.  She  was  very  beautiful.  I  glowed  with 
the  nearness  of  her  loveliness.  Again  I  felt  that 
impulse  to  kneel  before  her,  to  tell  her  that  she  was 
a  goddess  and  I  her  devout  worshiper.  I  wanted 
to  touch  her,  not  to  caress,  but  merely  to  touch  her 
as  though  the  touch  would  heal  every  trouble  of 
my  spirit  and  put  my  soul  at  peace.  Then  she  put 
her  hand  on  mine  and  said  again:  "Tell  me." 

I  told  her  in  a  rush  of  words  not  well  chosen  but 
intense.  I  told  her  that  I  had  begun  to  lose  faith 
in  happiness — in  my  power  to  give  happiness.  No 
one  seemed  happy  and  yet  I  worked  hard  with  the 


215 

hope  of  making  someone  happy.  Everywhere  I 
found  discontent  and  pain  and  unsatisfied  longing. 
Suspicion,  jealousy  and  greed  peered  at  me  from  the 
eyes  of  people,  from  strangers  in  audiences,  from 
politicians,  from  friends,  from  my  own  family.  Yet 
I  didn't  believe  that  I  wanted  to  take  from  anyone. 
I  wanted  to  give.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been 
endowed  with  the  power  to  give  things  to  people. 
But  those  to  whom  I  tried  to  give  more  than  they 
gave  to  me  were  not  made  happy.  They  wanted 
more — or  they  wanted  what  I  could  not  give. 

Then  to-night  I  had  found  I  could  give  something 
to  a  great  hall-full  of  people — something  that  stirred 
them  and  made  them  happy  for  the  moment.  Then 
she  had  come  to  me  with  shining  eyes  and  I  had 
felt  that  I  had  made  her  happy — for  a  moment,  at 
least. 

"For  a  long  time,"  she  whispered. 

Half  unconsciously,  but  with  a  delicious  sub-con 
scious  pleasure,  I  had  been  gripping  her  hand. 
Suddenly  I  bent  and  kissed  it.  As  I  did  so  she 
leaned  down  and  her  lips  rested  for  one  joyous 
moment  on  my  bowed  head. 

With  that  light  caress  it  seemed  as  though  all 
my  doubtings  and  perplexities,  all  the  infinite  vexa 
tions  of  campaigning  were  lifted  from  me.  A  divine 
sense  of  reason  and  purpose  unsnarled  the  tangles 
of  existence.  The  thought  of  man  serving  woman — 
serving  God — came  with  that  strange  clearness  with 
which  problems  are  solved  in  dreams.  I  can't  ex 
press  the  idea  more  plainly  because  the  moment  I 


216          "SPEND  AND  BE  SPENT' 

tried  to  put  it  into  words  it  fled  away.  But  in  the 
instant  of  apparent  perception  I  was  supremely 
happy.  It  was  as  though  I  had  seen  Truth — not  a 
truth — but  all  that  is  true — in  a  flash  of  inspiration. 


Voices  were  heard  in  the  hallway.  We  arose 
and  walked  toward  the  door — not  very  steadily,  but 
leaning  each  a  little  upon  the  other.  Half-way 
across  the  room  we  paused. 

What  I  said  may  sound  stupid,  but  she  under 
stood: 

"We'll  never  be  strangers  again,  will  we?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

I  stood  trying  to  get  hold  of  myself,  as  a  man 
who  realizes  he  is  near  to  intoxication.  Then  I 
laughed — not  with  amusement  but  rather  in  self- 
deprecation. 

"Well,  that's  my  naked  soul.  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  try  to  keep  it  clothed?" 

She  smiled. 

"Perhaps  you  are  wiser  than  I  thought,"  she  said. 

"But  you  didn't  mind  my  being  foolish  for  a  few 
moments  to-night?" 

"I  loved  it." 


Chuck  Dunham  came  to  say  that  I  should  have 
been  in  my  bed  an  hour  before.  I  agreed  with  him 
but  I  thanked  him  for  having  allowed  me  that  hour 
of  grace. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GLEAMS 

THERE  is  much  more  that  could  be  written 
about  that  campaign  for  Governor,  but  very 
little  which  seems  to  me  worth  writing.  In 
my  reaction  after  the  hard  struggle  the  details  all 
seem  trivial  and  only  the  broad  effects  important. 
Undoubtedly  we  did  stir  the  state  out  of  a  long 
political  lethargy.  We  had  had  "good  government" 
for  many  years — that  is,  respectable,  sleek  appear 
ing  government  whereby  those  who  had  wealth  and 
power  quietly  profited  at  the  expense  of  those  who 
had  not.  Imperceptibly  the  burden  laid  by  the  gov 
erning  class  on  the  governed  had  increased  and  un 
rest  had  grown.  But  the  dull-minded  and  over 
worked  had  only  a  sense  of  wrong.  They  had  lacked 
any  definite  hostility  to  those  who  were  exploiting 
them. 

The  stolid,  yet  somehow  wistful,  crowds  that  had 
passed  before  my  eyes  had  educated  me,  even  if  I 
had  failed  to  educate  them.  I  had  realized  that 
they  were  not  ready  for  revolt.  They  were  foot 
sore  and  weary;  but  most  of  them  had  a  humble 
idea  that  it  was  ordained  that  they  should  be  burden 
carriers  for  other  men  and  they  had  no  vigorous 
resentment  at  either  the  industrial  system  or  its  rulers 

217 


218  GLEAMS 

who  provided  them  with  their  burdens.  They  were 
inclined  to  believe  that  a  man  who  offered  them  work 
on  the  condition  of  reaping  all  their  profits  was  con 
ferring  a  favor  on  them  in  paying  them  enough 
wages  to  keep  them  physically  able  to  go  on  work 
ing  for  him. 

The  trade  union  leaders  combated  this  belief  in 
a  crude  way,  but  did  not  overthrow  it.  They  sowed 
discontent  with  the  amount  of  the  wage  but  very 
few  of  them  had  vision  enough  to  educate  their  fol 
lowers  to  an  understanding  of  the  stupidities  and 
wrongs  which  they  were  asked  to  accept  as  wisdom 
and  justice.  No  political  or  social  revolution  of  real 
value  could  come  out  of  such  a  blind  citizenship. 
A  demagogue  might  arouse  a  foolish  destructive 
wrath  that  would  tear  down  good  and  bad  together. 
But  I  had  no  desire  to  be  such  a  leader  or  to  achieve 
such  results. 

Near  the  end  of  the  campaign  I  had  received  a 
letter  from  Jeannette.  Her  husband  was  trying  to 
run  some  mines  in  Mexico.  They  were  living  in  the 
danger  zone  between  various  bands  of  revolutionists. 
They  were  being  taxed  to  death  by  the  so-called  gov 
ernment,  for  "protection,"  which  they  did  not  re 
ceive.  They  were  being  preyed  upon  by  every  new 
"General"  who  attained  a  local  power  backed  up 
by  a  looting  band  of  brigands.  But  what  was  her 
husband's  own  work?  Jeannette  saw  things  more 
clearly  than  he. 

"Jim  is  so  exasperated,"  [she  wrote].  "He  says  he  is  trying 
to  give  these  poor  stupid  people  useful  work  at  wages  better 


GLEAMS  219 

than  they  have  ever  earned,  that  he  is  trying  to  make  the 
country  prosperous,  bringing  in  foreign  capital  and  develop 
ing  its  wonderful  resources.  Then  he  is  robbed  by  govern 
ment  and  outlaws  alike.  Neither  life  nor  property  is  safe. 
If  they  force  him  to  abandon  his  work  they  will  simply  de 
stroy  their  own  opportunities. 

"In  a  way  what  Jim  says  is  true — and  yet  I  wonder  if 
what  Jim  and  his  employers  want  to  do  is  really  the  right 
thing.  They  hire  men  for  wages  which  you  wouldn't  think 
would  support  a  dog.  Jim's  employers  expected  to  make 
at  least  a  thousand  per  cent  on  their  investment.  They 
helped  to  put  in  power  a  government  of  thieves  who  would 
steal  concessions  from  the  people  and  give  them  to  Jim's 
company. 

"Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  Jim's  friends  just  came 
here  to  rob  these  people  and  now  they  object  to  being  robbed 
themselves.  They  say  the  people  are  stupid  and  ungrateful. 
Maybe  this  would  be  a  happy  land  if  the  people  were  meek 
and  peaceable  and  let  themselves  be  worked  for  starvation 
wages  so  that  other  men  could  build  mansions  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  But  when  I  read — as  I  have  read — that  hosts  of 
workers  in  the  United  States  earn  no  more  than  Five  Hun 
dred  Dollars  a  year  for  long  hours  of  daily  hard  labor,  I'm 
not  surprised  that  these  Mexicans  prefer  their  lawless,  pov 
erty-stricken  freedom  to  the  law  and  order  slavery  that  the 
foreign  masters  urge  them  to  accept. 

"They  are  very  dull  and  ignorant  and  lazy  and  they  don't 
arouse  my  personal  sympathy  at  all.  I  think  they  are  prob 
ably  wrong-headed  and  would  be  better  off  if  they  accepted 
'civilizing,'  for  a  time  at  least.  Yet  I  can't  feel  that  our 
educative  methods  are  wholly  admirable. 

"Your  campaign  has  interested  me  greatly,  not  only  on 
account  of  you,  but  because  it  brought  home  to  me  down 
here  that  this  civilization,  which  the  Americans  around  us 
talk  of  bringing  into  Mexico,  is  still  a  very  greedy,  cruel, 
dishonest  thing,  even  in  the  noble  state  of  Illinois." 


220  GLEAMS 

Jeannette  overlooks  one  thing  that  appeals  to  me 
— the  value  and  persistent  effect  of  our  ideals.  Our 
lives  are  so  imperfect  that  it  does  seem  at  times  as 
though  our  professions  of  high  purposes  were 
hypocrisies,  used  to  give  a  false  sense  of  security  to 
those  from  whom  we  intend  to  take.  Yet  the  more 
I  see  of  men  in  large  numbers  the  more  I  observe 
the  dominance  of  a  desire  to  do  for  others  things 
which  will  make  them  respect,  love  or  admire  us. 
Vanity,  the  wish  to  be  well  thought  of,  may  seem  a 
mean  motive  but  it  is  a  powerful  force  for  good. 
Our  yieldings  to  material,  fleshly  passions,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  a  greater  accomplishment,  are  more  often 
the  results  of  ignorance  and  short-sightedness  than 
of  baseness  of  character.  At  least  this  belief  is  the 
foundation  of  my  optimism  in  humanity's  progress. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  more  we  know,  the  better 
the  things  we  achieve — as  a  rule. 

Thus,  out  of  this  campaign,  I  have  come  to  a 
faith  in  education,  in  persistent  sowing  of  seeds  to 
help  every-day  thinking.  If  I  made  another  cam 
paign  I  should  attack,  not  the  wickedness,  but  the 
stupidity  of  leaders  who  exploit  the  people  instead 
of  serving  them.  Think  of  the  wasted  ability  of  a 
clever  man  who  works  hard  all  his  life  to  dig  him 
self  deep  into  a  dishonored  grave !  What  a  tragedy 
for  an  immortal  soul!  It  isn't  posthumous  fame 
of  which  I  am  thinking.  It  is  the  posthumous  judg 
ment  of  a  soul  upon  its  own  pitiful  achievement  in 
the  opportunity  of  life. 


GLEAMS  221 

Mary  was  very  comforting  after  the  campaign. 
She  was  so  glad  that  it  was  all  over  and  at  the  same 
time  so  sure  that  I  must  be  more  disappointed  than 
I  said,  that  she  showered  me  with  kind  attentions. 
In  truth  I  was  not  unhappy,  but  rather  I  was  more 
relieved  than  Mary  and  particularly  pleased  to  feel 
that  she  and  I  were  drawn  closer  together  again. 
Also  I  was  seriously  worried  over  the  interest  in 
Irma  that  persisted  in  my  thought.  I  could  not 
analyze  my  feelings  but  I  suffered  from  them  most 
intensely.  I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  Springfield 
meeting.  We  had  exchanged  a  few  short  letters, 
but  they  were  only  significant  in  their  omissions  and 
in  the  fact  that  we  wrote  at  all. 

I  wanted  to  write  to  Irma  and  I  guessed  that  she 
wanted  to  write  to  me.  But  I  did  not  dare  to  write 
anything  that  was  real  or  important,  and  letter  writ 
ing  otherwise  is  a  futile  proceeding.  The  reason  I 
made  my  letters  to  Irma  so  tasteless  was  because  I 
knew  full  well  the  danger  I  would  run  in  starting 
even  a  harmless  intimacy  of  expression.  Just  to  test 
myself  I  sat  down  one  day  in  an  hour's  lull  during 
the  down-state  campaign  and  wrote  a  letter  "from 
the  heart  out" — a  letter  which  I  never  sent.  I  am 
destroying  it  as  I  write  these  words  but  I  am  going 
to  quote  a  few  sentences  in  order  to  make  clear  my 
state  of  mind: 

"I  shall  not  try  to  explain  why  I  feel  this  way — for,  if 
I  knew,  then  I  should  be  able  to  solve  the  puzzle  of  life.  I 
should  know  the  'why'  of  everything.  Long,  long  ago  I 
learned  that  the  end  of  all  seeking  is  merely  finding  what 


222  GLEAMS 

is — and  beyond  'what  is'  lies  shoreless  space  that  we  must 
cross  before  we  shall  learn  any  more. 

"What  is — is  that  your  presence  thrills  me  and  the 
thought  of  you  in  absence  lights  up  my  day — that  to  be  near 
you  is  like  feeling  a  soft  hand  closing  around  the  heart,  a 
pain  that  is  danger-sweet.  This  yearning  is  made  of  the 
same  stuff  as  love  of  life.  It  comes  with  the  exaltation  of 
a  religious  passion  to  sacrifice  oneself  for  another.  It  domi 
nates  with  the  ruthlessness  of  hunger.  But  it  is  a  hunger, 
not  to  take,  but  to  give." 

I  have  quoted  this  letter  because  it  states  a  feel 
ing  that  I  do  not  understand  fully,  and  which  I  am 
quite  sure  no  one  else  would  understand  at  all,  un 
less  possibly  Irma — and  of  that  I  have  some  doubt. 
The  dull  materialist  may  label  it  as  passion  and,  if 
he  is  conventionally  moral,  he  may  call  it  sinful.  The 
unbalanced  aesthete  may  call  it  pure  love.  I  know 
that  it  is  neither  pure  love  nor  pure  passion.  It  is 
too  sacrificial  and  tender  a  feeling  to  be  given  a 
brutal  name.  But  on  the  other  hand,  I  know  that 
only  ignorance  or  hypocrisy  would  insist  that  it  has 
only  spiritual  significance.  It  is  the  imperfect  love 
of  a  man  for  a  woman,  but  sufficiently  idealistic  so 
that  not  for  any  passing  pleasure  would  I  risk  soil 
ing  or  cheapening  it,  by  making  an  "affair"  out  of 
it  for  gossips  to  pass  around  through  unclean  minds. 

This  is  not  an  all-absorbing  love,  because  it  has 
no  diminishing  effect  upon  my  affection  for  Mary. 
Possibly  it  has  deepened  my  fondness  for  her.  At 
times  I  wish  that  I  could  tear  it  out  of  my  thoughts 
so  that  Mary  might  have  that  legal  monopoly  to 
which  she  is  supposed  to  be  entitled.  But  to  do  this 


GLEAMS  223 

would  leave  an  open  wound  that  would  be  long  in 
healing.  In  romantic  moments  I  think  that  it  would 
never  cease  to  bleed. 

There  is  another  loss  that  I  should  suffer  in  de 
priving  myself  of  Irma — the  constant  stimulation 
of  an  interest  so  vivid  that  life  seems  always  worth 
while.  I  find  from  time  to  time  this  same  stimula 
tion  in  Mary  but  it  is  not  quite  steady  and  keen 
enough  to  conquer  the  depressions  to  which  a  tired 
body  and  mind  sometimes  succumb.  I  am  becoming 
very  curious  about  this  effect  of  a  woman  upon  the 
god  within  a  man.  I  say  "the  god  within"  because 
if  there  be  any  divine  element  in  human  beings  surely 
it  is  felt  in  that  urge  to  do  things,  to  make  some 
thing  of  life,  that  illusion  even  of  the  pessimist  that 
there  is  some  reason  in  ambition  and  some  hope  in 
achievement  beyond  the  mere  sustaining  of  life  and 
the  increase  of  physical  sensation. 

I  was  discussing  this  question  with  Mary  one 
evening,  indulging  in  sweeping  generalities  with  an 
ingenuous  assumption  of  abstract  interest  that  was 
pitifully  futile  to  deceive  a  woman's  intuition,  when 
she  said: 

"Is  Mrs.  Conway  still  visiting  Miss  Halliwell  in 
St.  Louis,  Rodney?" 

"Really  I  can't  say,"  I  answered,  aghast  at  this 
sudden  dragging  in  of  the  concealed  object  of  my 
thoughts.  "The  last  I  heard  of  her  she  was  there." 

"The  last  you  heard,"  she  repeated  significantly. 
"Was  that  recently  enough  so  that  I  could  safely 
write  to  her  there?" 


224  GLEAMS 

"I  think  so."  I  was  seriously  embarrassed. 
"Gene  wrote  me  a  few  days  ago  and  spoke  of  her." 

"It  occurred  to  me  that  she  might  care  to  run  up 
to  Chicago  and  stay  with  us  for  a  few  days  on  her 
way  east — or  is  she  going  back  east?" 

"Really,  Marykins,  I  don't  know  what  her  plans 
are.  I  am  no  confidant  of  hers.  I  didn't  even  know 
that  she  had  left  Washington  until  she  appeared  in 
Springfield  with  the  Halliwells." 

"Oh,"  she  said. 

Then  there  was  quite  a  pause. 

"Mary,"  I  began  belligerently,  "you  don't  like 
Mrs.  Conway.  Why  on  earth  should  you  ask  her  to 
visit  us?" 

"You  like  her,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do.  You  know  that.  But  that 
is  far  from  a  good  reason  why  you  should  invite 
her." 

"I  thought,**  she  said  slowly,  choosing  her  words 
carefully,  "that  perhaps  the  stimulation  of  her 
presence  might  inspire  you  to  great  deeds.  Per 
haps  you  might  be  able  to  win  Mrs.  Girling's  case !" 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  laugh.  So  I  laughed 
vigorously — and  lonesomely. 

"Mary,  you  are  the  strangest  mixture  I  ever  knew. 
In  this  suggestion  and  your  wicked  thrust  at  Irma's 
supposed  influence  on  me,  you  are  just  as  unlike  the 
dear,  sweet  girl  that  you  are  nine  days  out  of  ten, 
as  you  possibly  could  be." 

"You  find  me  interesting?"  she  remarked  with  a 
gleam  of  battle  in  her  eyes. 


GLEAMS  225 

"Very  interesting — and  exasperating." 

"Stimulating?" 

"Irritating,  may  be  the  better  word." 

"Failing  again,"  she  said  with  mock  pathos,  ris 
ing  and  moving  toward  the  writing  desk.  "I'll  in 
vite  the  genuine  stimulator." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  asserted. 

"Oh,  yes  I  shall,"  she  replied. 

And  of  course,  in  the  end,  she  did. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
GROPING 

THE  pleasant  nightmare  of  Irma's  visit  has 
passed.  I  did  not  believe  she  would  accept 
the  invitation,  but  I  imagine  that  Mary 
phrased  it  very  cleverly.  She  is  good  at  that  sort  of 
thing.  Irma  sensed  a  concealed  challenge  which  her 
alert  nature  could  not  quite  resist.  It  might  have 
pleased  a  cheap  vanity  if  I  had  thought  that  Irma 
cared  enough  for  me  to  be  willing  to  come,  even 
though  in  violation  of  her  standards  of  good  taste. 
Unfortunately  for  vanity  I  felt  quite  sure  that  if 
Irma  really  cared  about  me  deeply  she  would  have 
declined  to  be  our  guest.  So  her  acceptance  de 
pressed  me  considerably,  despite  the  pleasure  I  antic 
ipated  in  seeing  her. 

Mary  certainly  gave  Irma  a  busy  week.  There 
was  some  kind  of  party  every  evening,  and  luncheons 
and  teas  scattered  liberally  through  the  days.  The 
superficial  observer  would  have  thought  that  "Irma" 
and  "Mary"  were  girlhood  playmates.  I  heard 
Mary  arranging  one  affair  over  the  telephone: 

"You  must  come  Thursday  afternoon.  You've 
heard  me  speak  of  Irma  Conway,  my  friend  from 
Washington?  She  is  only  with  us  a  few  days  and 
I  know  you  will  like  her.  If  you  think  it's  quite 

326 


GROPING  227 

safe,  I'll  invite  you  and  Jack  for  dinner  later,  but  I 
warn  you  that  Irma  is  a  beauty  and  Jack  is  so  sus 
ceptible  I  thought  you  had  better  come  Thursday 
and  tell  me  if  you  think  it  safe  for  me  to  ask  him. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  husband?  ...  I  certainly  should 
worry  if  he  weren't  so  deep  in  politics  that  he  can't 
think  of  anything  else  .  .  .  Yes,  you  see  he's  in 
love  with  the  whole  world  .  .  .  No,  he  has  no  time 
to  fall  in  love  with  just  one  woman  .  .  .  Well,  wait 
till  you  see  Irma.  You'll  say  that  I  must  feel  very 
sure  of  him  to  have  such  a  siren  in  the  house  .  .  . 
Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye,  I'll  see  you 
Thursday." 

Let  it  be  understood  that  I  listened  to  this  sort  of 
thing,  with  variations,  for  several  days !  Always 
during  that  trying  time  I  was  in  sight  of  and  near 
Irma  and  never  with  her.  Furthermore,  Mary  in 
vited  the  most  interesting,  effective  men  of  our 
acquaintance  and  commented  enthusiastically  on  the 
charm  that  Irma  held  for  them  all,  regardless  of 
age,  position  or  previous  condition  of  servitude.  I 
found  it  rather  hard  to  bear  this.  In  fact,  I  con-| 
ceived  a  mild  dislike  for  many  of  my  old  friends. 

In  some  adroit  manner  Mary  made  it  quite  impos 
sible  that  Irma  and  I  should  ever  be  left  alone  for 
more  than  a  few  minutes.  Then  Sunday  morning 
Mary  apparently  reversed  her  policy  with  one  of 
those  sudden  shifts  always  so  surprising  to  me  and 
yet  so  essentially  feminine.  I  think  possibly  the  idea 
occurred  to  her  that  Irma  might  think  she  did  not 
dare  to  leave  us  together. 


228  GROPING 

We  were  sitting  in  the  living  room  reading  the 
newspaper  and  chatting  desultorily  about  the  party 
of  the  previous  night  when  Mary  walked  in  clad  in 
riding  costume. 

"I'm  going  for  a  ride,"  she  announced.  "I  feel 
the  need  of  air  and  exercise.  I  called  up  the  stables 
and  Joe  is  bringing  Gypsy  to  the  end  of  the  bridle 
path.  I'll  be  back  around  noon.  Bye,  bye." 

I  read  the  paper  with  unseeing  eyes  for  a  few 
minutes  and  then,  glancing  up,  found  Irma  looking 
at  me  with  an  amused  smile. 

"How  well  Mary  looks  in  her  riding  clothes," 
she  remarked.  "You  have  a  very  clever,  attractive 
wife,  Rodney." 

Twice  I  attempted  to  speak  and  each  time  stopped 
something  that  sounded  utterly  inane,  as  it  struck 
upon  the  inner  ear  that  is  the  remorseless  critic  of 
the  self-conscious.  At  the  third  effort  I  managed  to 
remark: 

"Once  upon  a  time  in  Springfield  I  foolishly 
boasted  that  we  would  never  be  strangers  again. 
Yet  now  I  feel  as  though  you  were  very  remote  from 
me." 

"You  don't  understand  women,  do  you,  Rodney?" 

"I'm  quite  convinced  that  I  do  not." 

"You  don't  understand  why  Mary  invited  me 
here.  You  don't  understand  why  I  came.  Most  of 
all  you  don't  understand  why  Mary  suddenly  leaves 
us  en  tete-a-tete" 

"I  confess  that  all  these  things  are  largely  mys 
teries  to  me !" 


GROPING  229 

"Would  it  help  you  if  I  suggested  that  nine  times 
out  of  ten  a  woman  does  what  she  most  wants  to 
do,  and  that  the  tenth  time  she  does  just  what  she 
doesn't  want  to  do,  in  order  to  make  people  believe 
that  she  does  want  to  do  what  she  doesn't  want  to 
do?" 

"It  sounds  too  mathematically  exact." 

"Then  let  me  add  that  there  are  a  great  many 
exceptions  to  most  rules  and  that  exceptions  are 
more  interesting  to  women  than  rules.  However, 
you  should  at  least  know  the  rules,  so  that  you  may 
recognize  the  significance  of  exceptions." 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  never  know  which  are  the  nine 
times  and  which  is  the  tenth." 

"Then  let  me  continue  the  lesson,"  she  advised. 
"You  see  I'm  interested  in  you,  Rodney,  or  I 
shouldn't  bother  about  your  education." 

"For  those  kind  words  many  thanks." 

I  rose  and  bowed  deeply. 

"It's  this  way,  Rodney:  If  I  were  interested  in 
a  married  man,  or  if  he  were  interested  in  me,  more 
than  his  wife  might  approve,  I  shouldn't  care  to 
accept  his  wife's  invitation  to  be  a  house  guest.  Now 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  Mary  thinks  that  such  an 
interest  exists  here,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  or  per 
haps  on  both.  She  invites  me  practically  as  a  test 
— as  an  unasked  question.  In  a  clever  way  she  made 
that  clear  in  her  letter.  I  think  she  wrote  that  she 
was  very  anxious  to  have  me  come,  unless  circum 
stances  were  such  that  I  could  not  possibly  see  my 
way  clear  to  tarrying  here  during  my  trip  east.  I 


230  GROPING 

may  not  have  quoted  the  phrase  correctly  but  the 
possible  double  meaning  was  very  neat — and  I  got  it ! 
That  note  was  to  me  like  a  challenge — and  it's  al 
ways  been  a  failing  of  mine  that  I  hate  to  be  dared. 
So  I  came.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  done  it.  But 
I'm  sure  that  my  conduct  since  has  been  unimpeach 
able." 

"You  are  delightfully  frank.  That's  one  thing  I 
love  about  you.  You  grasp  a  nettle  far  more  bravely 
than  I  do.  For  a  week  I've  been  wanting  to  talk 
with  you  alone.  Here  is  the  opportunity  and  I  am 
tongue-tied." 

"Why?" 

"Really,  Irma,  I  don't  know.  Despite  the  indica 
tion  I  may  have  given  in  Springfield,  it  has  not  been 
a  desire  to  make  love  to  you.  I  want  to  talk  about 
life  with  you — what  it's  all  about — what  we  are  try 
ing  to  do  with  it — because  I  want  to  know  how  you 
feel  about  it — because  it  seems  that  I  can  get  so 
much  more  out  of  a  woman's  ideas  than  I  can  out 
of  a  man's.  I  know  a  lot  about  men's  ideas — many 
things  that  I  wish  I  didn't  know.  But  I  confess  I 
know  very  little  about  women.  I've  known  so  few 
women  at  all  well.  I've  had  very  little  curiosity  to 
know  many  women  well.  So  that  when  I  find  a  tre 
mendous  desire  to  know  you  it  seems  to  me  a  matter 
of  tragic  importance.  Yet  I  suppose  Mary  would 
feel  that  such  an  interest  in  another  woman  reflected 
discredit  on  her " 

"And  you  don't  wish  to  do  anything  during  my 
visit  to  reflect  discredit  on  her." 


GROPING  231 

"That's  about  it.  Yet  it  isn't  fair  play,  Irma. 
Confound  it!  Women  don't  play  their  own  rules. 
But  they  demand  that  their  men  should." 

"No  exceptions  for  the  men,"  she  laughed. 
"We  make  the  exceptions,  Rodney,  for  ourselves." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something.  Maybe  you'll  think 
less  of  me  for  telling  this,  but  I  think  that  I  have 
a  right.  There's  an  old  sweetheart  of  Mary's  who 
comes  to  town  now  and  then  and  she  insists  on  tak 
ing  lunch  with  him.  She  told  me  about  it  a  few 
times  until  it  got  on  my  nerves  and  I  became  dis 
agreeable.  Then  she  said  that  she  could  see  that 
she  could  not  be  frank  with  me.  Now  I  don't 
know  whether  she  sees  him  or  not,  but  naturally  I 
think  she  does. 

"Don't  think  that  I  imagine  this  is  a  dangerous 
interest.  It  doesn't  worry  me  that  way.  It  just 
annoys  me  and  at  times  I  think  it  is  wrong  for  me 
to  be  annoyed.  Whatever  reason  she  may  have  for 
breathing  now  and  then  on  the  old  ashes  is  really 
her  affair.  It's  her  privilege.  Marriage  shouldn't 
be  a  slavery  of  the  mind.  What  annoys  me  most 
is  the  thought  that  if  I  wanted  to  spend  a  Sunday 
afternoon  talking  with  some  old  sweetheart  of  mine 
Mary  would  be  deeply  offended." 

"You  forget,  Rodney,  that  a  woman  has  more  to 
protect  than  a  man.  A  woman  has  her  home  to 
safeguard.  A  man  may  make  a  passable  home  for 
himself,  without  a  woman  in  it.  But  the  woman  who 
loses  her  man  loses  her  home.  When  a  woman  risks 
her  home  you  may  know  that  she  is  really  in  love." 


232  GROPING 

"Or  in  sight  of  a  better  home." 

"That  wasn't  nice  of  you,  Rodney.  It  isn't  like 
you  to  be  so  nasty." 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  that  now.  But  there  is  a  tigerish 
cruelty  in  the  way  even  apparently  gentle  women 
play  the  game  with  men,  that  calls  for  bitter  com 
ment." 

"And  how  about  the  careless  cruelty  of  men?" 

"At  least  it  isn't  calculated." 

"But  it  hurts  just  the  same." 

"Tell  me,  Irma,  do  you  think  there's  any  good 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  like  you,  and  enjoy  being 
with  you?  Do  you  th?hk  that  my  having  such  an 
interest  is  disloyalty  to  (Mary?" 

She  half-closed  her  eyes  with  a  kindly  but  tantaliz 
ing  smile. 

"Just  what  is  your  interest  in  me,  Rodney?" 

"My  dear  lady,  you  know  perfectly  well  how  much 
I  enjoy  your  society." 

"That  doesn't  answer  me.  I'll  ask  another  ques 
tion.  Would  you  like  Mary  to  enjoy  another  man's 
society  to  the  same  extent?" 

"That's  very  clever,  because  if  I  say,  yes,  it  may 
indicate  that  my  interest  in  you  is  not  very  intense. 
But  I  will  say  this:  I  think  that,  if  Mary  could 
get  as  much  enjoyment  from  association  with  an 
other  man,  as  much  increased  zest  of  living,  as  I 
get  from  brief  companionships  with  you,  I  should 
have  no  right  to  deny  that  to  her." 

"Nevertheless  you  would  object." 

"Conventionally,    perhaps,    I    should.      I'm    not 


GROPING  233 

questioning  Mary's  conventional  right  to  resent  my 
liking  for  you.  It  isn't  quite  comme  il  faut.  But  I 
refuse  to  feel  that  I  am  morally  wrong  in  having 
— an  affection  for  you.  It's  a  fact.  I  don't  think 
the  fact  is  wrong." 

She  laughed. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  "that  a  dirty  face  is 
often  a  fact.  But  it  ought  to  be  washed." 

"Do  you  think  I  should  use  soap  and  water?" 

"I'd  hate  to  have  you  lose  your  interesting  com 
plexion." 

"Irma,  I  don't  want  to  be  sentimental,  but,  hav 
ing  found  you,  I  should  hate  to  lose  you.  You  give 
me  a  sense  of  certain  things  in  life.  I  get  feelings 
about  life  from  you.  There's  no  disrespect  in  that 
for  Mary.  I  get  many  things  from  Mary,  as  I 
hope  she  does  from  me.  But  I  haven't  the  sublime 
egotism  to  think  that  Mary  can  get  everything  from 
me  that  any  man  could  give  her.  So  why  should 
Mary  feel  that  I  can  realize  all  that  there  is  in 
womankind  from  her?" 

I  have  tried  to  give  a  fair  sketch  of  this  talk  of 
ours.  There  was  much  more  of  it,  all  very  intimate 
and  yet  essentially  not  lovemaking — just  groping  for 
ideas  about  the  parts  men  and  woman  can  play  in 
each  other's  lives.  Since  Irma  has  left  I  have 
thought  a  great  deal  about  this.  It  seems  to  me  that 
here  is  one  of  the  great  questions.  I  resent 
vehemently  the  "French  novel"  attitude  toward  it. 
Of  course  physical  attraction  plays  a  large  part  in 
the  relationships  of  men  and  women.  But  if  phys- 


234  GROPING 

ical  desire  and  satisfaction  were  all  that  there  is  in 
it,  what  a  cheap  thing  life  would  be — a  chemical 
formula — attraction,  union,  reproduction — for  what 
purpose?  Yet  out  of  this  mating  instinct  arise 
greater  instincts — dreams  of  achievements — dreams 
of  making  life  something  better  than  it  is.  Ex 
perience  and  control  desire;  and  how  the  imagina 
tion  soars!  Vision  comes.  Illusion  blooms.  God 
grows. 

At  the  end  of  all  my  thinking  I  return  to  that 
thought — the  more  I  yearn,  the  more  I  seek  to  en 
noble  things  often  called  base,  the  more  I  feel  some 
thing  better  than  I  am  begin  to  stir  within,  begin  to 
rise  out  of  me — something  too  great,  too  clean,  for 
a  small,  earthy  body — the  sense  of  a  god  within  that 
grows. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

IT  is  Saturday  afternoon  and  I  am  alone  in  my 
office.  The  door  is  locked  and  I  pray  that  the 
telephone  will  remain  silent.  I've  been  doing 
some  hard  thinking  and  I'm  going  to  attempt  some 
hard  writing.  The  egoism  which  makes  this  writ 
ing  seem  worth  while  does  not  assure  me  that  any 
publisher  will  ever  think  that  what  I  have  written 
is  worth  printing.  If  it  ever  is  printed  I  know  that 
I  shall  be  criticised  for  having  expressed  myself  so 
frankly,  and  particularly  for  having  written  so  inti 
mately  about  those  who  are  near  and  dear  to  me. 
But  I  shall  see  to  it  that  nothing  is  published  until 
anyone  who  may  be  hurt  by  candor  is  no  longer  liv 
ing.  I  do  not  believe  that  truth  can  harm  the  dead. 

Mary  often  remarks  critically  that  I  love  the 
whole  world.  Hence  she  suggests  that  I  am  in 
capable  of  truly  loving  one  person.  Mary  does  not 
understand.  I  cannot  say  honestly  that  I  love  the 
world,  that  I  am  a  lover  of  humanity.  People  in 
mass  seem  to  me  short-sighted,  dull,  and  alternately 
exasperating  and  pitiful.  Not  that  I  feel  particu 
larly  superior.  On  the  contrary  I  find  my  own 
actions  shortsighted,  dull,  exasperating  and  pitiful. 
I  love  neither  the  whole  world  nor  myself.  But  I 

235 


236  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

do  feel  that  I  am  a  freer  human  being  than  most  of 
my  fellows.  My  parents  let  me  develop  without 
strapping  artificial  supports  to  my  legs  to  relieve 
their  fear  that  I  might  be  unable  to  stand  alone. 
Fortunately  no  teacher  fitted  me  with  special  mental 
lenses  through  which  to  obtain  a  carefully  distorted 
vision  of  life.  Therefore  I  have  no  inherited  re 
ligious  dogmas  and  no  educated  prejudices.  Of 
course  I  am  mentally  shaped  by  inheritance  just  as 
I  am  heir  to  the  bodily  characteristics  of  my  an 
cestors.  But,  as  the  world  goes,  I  am  unusually 
free  and  have  never  provided  myself  with  a  strait- 
jacket  for  my  thoughts.  A  notable  analyst  of  men 
and  women  once  told  me  that  I  had  the  credit  of 
my  lack  of  convictions. 

Now,  lack  of  convictions  is  a  distressful  state  of 
mind.  To  relieve  this  distress  I  have  acquired  a 
faith — a  faith  in  something  which  I  have  gradually 
come  to  describe  as  The  Purpose.  I  call  this  a  faith, 
but  it  is  not  a  blind,  assured  faith.  It  is  a  changing 
thing.  Some  days  all  things  seem  quite  clear.  At 
other  times  I  feel  swept  out  into  an  ocean  of  doubts. 
Yet  the  sense  of  Purpose  In  life  persists  and  in  this 
sense  my  part  in  life  seems  to  be  to  live  fully  and 
deeply,  to  think  hard  and  to  write  down  my  thought 
and  my  life  as  the  days  go  by,  in  the  hope  that  in 
this  revelation  I  may  help  a  little  to  set  other  souls 
free  from  ancient  taboos  which  may  have  had  some 
use  in  the  dawning  of  intelligence,  but  which  persist 
beyond  their  vital  years  to  repress  and  to  confine 
the  modern  mind. 


THE  GOD  WHO  GREW  237 

Let  me  attempt  a  dangerous  example  of  this 
thought.  There  is  the  ancient  taboo  about  keeping 
the  Sabbath  holy — a  very  wise  provision  for  a  rest 
from  daily  labor  on  one  day  in  every  seven — a  very 
wise  provision  for  a  day  for  the  soul,  a  day  for  good 
thoughts  and  good  works,  a  day  for  devotion  to 
God.  But  the  taboo  that  one  particular  day  is  sacred 
has  lost  much  of  its  force  in  the  expansion  of  modern 
life  whereby,  on  the  one  hand,  many  find  in  the 
Sabbath  a  day  of  pleasure,  a  day  of  amusement  and 
sports,  and  on  the  other  hand  many  find  it  merely 
another  day  of  toil. 

Free  modern  thought  rejects  the  ancient  taboo, 
rejects  the  idea  of  a  divine  will  requiring  a  day  of 
worship,  but  accepts  the  divine  law  that  man  should 
have  one  day  in  every  seven  for  rest  and  change  of 
interest.  Yet  the  taboo  persists,  constantly  hamper 
ing  and  confining  a  free,  intelligent  division  of  the 
week  and  a  free  intelligent  use  of  the  day  of  rest 
and  change,  with  an  arbitrary,  unreasoning  demand 
for  an  arbitrary,  unreasoning  observance  of  an 
ancient  form. 

From  such  bondage  as  this  mankind  must  some 
day  work  itself  free.  The  so-called  divine  will  which 
issues  a  command  through  human  mouths  is  an  unreal 
thing  and  its  acceptance  is  mental  slavery.  The 
divine  purpose  which  persuades  men  through  their 
divine  minds  is  very  real  and  its  understanding  is 
the  obligation  and  the  happiness  of  a  free  soul. 

The  "one  day  rest  in  seven"  is  at  the  moment  a 
part  of  the  political  creed  of  our  insurgents.  It  is 


238  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

interesting  to  note  how  this  demand  meets  response 
through  the  masses  of  hard-working  men  and 
women.  They  know  that  they  need  the  day  of  rest. 
But  if  we  made  our  rallying  cry  "remember  the 
Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy"  these  same  masses 
might  give  us  the  approval  of  their  lips  but  their 
hearts  would  not  be  stirred.  Yet  what  could  be 
more  holy  than  a  day  of  lifted  burdens,  a  day  when 
the  weary  back  is  straightened,  the  tired  eyes  rest 
and  the  spirit  is  left  free  to  contemplate  life,  to  enjoy 
living,  a  day  of  that  true  worship  that  comes  from 
love  of  life?  I  must  believe  that  any  God  worthy 
of  worship  would  prefer  that  His  children  should 
enjoy  the  life  he  gave  them,  rather  than  that  they 
should  fear  His  wrath. 

Time  and  time  again  I  have  attempted  to  make 
some  statement  of  my  faith  because  it  seems  to  me  so 
much  more  intense,  vital  and  workable  in  my  own 
life  than  the  creeds  of  many  of  my  orthodox  friends 
are  in  their  lives.  Hence  it  seems  that  it  should  be 
possible  to  express  it  in  some  way  to  meet  the 
common  approval  of  others  who  feel  as  I  do. 
Finally,  I  have  set  down  a  few  words  which  are  not 
a  creed  but  rather  a  suggestion,  a  hint  of  a  faith,  a 
religious  motive  for  life  that  may  be  professed  by 
those  who  worship  God  under  different  names, 
through  different  forms,  but  in  a  common  trust  that 
life  is  good. 


THE  GOD  WHO  GREW  239 

MY  FAITH 

I  have  a  faith,  an  unbounded  faith,  in  the  Purpose.  I 
believe  in  the  gradual  bettering  of  mankind.  I  believe  in 
the  service  of  Truth  and  the  futility  of  Falsehood.  I  believe 
in  that  righteousness  which  is  the  essence  of  Christianity. 
But  I  have  no  sense  of  personality  about  it.  My  thought 
of  any  Guiding  Power  of  the  universe  is  inchoate.  That 
which  I  could  call  God  must  be  so  far  above  my  finite  con 
ceptions  that  I  cannot  visualize  Him  at  all.  I  think  my 
"God"  is  the  God  of  all  Christians,  but  I  do  not  personify 
Him.  Therefore,  I  cannot  appeal  to  him  by  words,  but  only 
by  actions,  tacitly  submitted  for  His  approval,  or,  in  more 
accurate  language,  devoted  to  the  service  of  the  Purpose. 

This  is  neither  atheism  nor  agnosticism.  It  is  a  religion; 
but  it  will  not  permit  me  in  full  honesty  to  take  part  in 
the  forms  of  worship  prescribed  by  any  particular  church, 
since  in  so  doing  I  should  be  attempting  to  formulate,  and 
thus  to  delimit  by  narrow  human  ideas  that  which  I  believe 
surpasses  human  imagination. 

It  appeals  to  me  as  a  greater  tribute  to  Deity  than  mere 
love  or  fear,  to  acknowledge  the  simple  truth,  that  the  Uni 
verse  and  Life  so  far  overwhelm  mortal  reasoning  that  the 
Source,  the  Power  and  the  Purpose  can  never  be  identified 
or  understood  by  our  tiny  brains. 

The  finite  cannot  possibly  comprehend  the  infinite.  Finite 
explanations  of  creation  and  its  infinite  purposes  are  usually 
presumptuous  and  pathetic.  I  prefer,  and  to  be  sincere  I  am 
required,  to  adopt  that  blind  faith  which  seems  to  me  a 
nobler  worship  of  the  Divine  than  reverence  for  the  dog 
matic  symbolism  of  a  creed.  I  am  not  indifferent  to  the 
invaluable  service  of  the  orthodox  Christian  churches.  But 
their  formalism  is  more  disturbing  than  satisfying  to  my 
religious  yearning  to  serve  the  great  Concept,  which  has  no 
time  nor  place  nor  name,  but  simply  is;  whose  Purpose  must 
be  fulfilled  and  whose  Glory  is  to  be. 


24o  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

In  what  I  have  written  there  is  no  word  of  man 
or  woman.  To  my  mind  the  purpose  of  life  is  sex 
less.  Yet  in  living  life  the  relations  of  men  and 
women  and  their  influence  upon  each  other  are  all 
important.  The  sex  element  is  dynamic.  Men  and 
women  energize  each  other. 

I  have  been  drifting  along  writing  generalizations 
about  religion,  but  when  I  stop,  look  and  listen,  I 
know  that  the  motive  power  of  my  thought  comes 
not  from  contacts  with  a  world  of  men  but  from  the 
interplay  of  my  thought  with  the  thoughts  of  women. 
Just  now  Irma  and  Mary — and  to  a  lesser  degree, 
Jeannette — give  me  my  mental  grip  on  life.  I  feel 
that  if  I  lost  contact  with  all  three  I  should  be  like 
one  pole  of  an  electric  battery — a  dead  thing.  The 
current  that  flows  between  these  women  and  me  is 
a  conscious,  vital  force.  All  else  seems  chemical, 
mechanical,  unconscious. 

Most  of  my  living  has  been  a  working  with  men 
to  do  things  in  a  world  of  men.  I  have  enjoyed 
somewhat  the  struggle  for  success.  I  have  found 
at  times  the  same  elation  as  when  I  ran  races  and 
played  football  in  college — the  zest  of  the  game,  the 
physical  thrill  of  matching  one  will  against  another. 
But  as  in  college,  so  in  business,  always  when  the 
glow  of  competition  has  faded  has  come  a  feeling 
that  in  itself  the  struggle  was  meaningless,  that  it 
must  be  identified  as  a  means  to  some  end  to  give  it 
any  lasting  value. 

Whenever  I  have  sought  some  purpose  which  this 


THE  GOD  WHO  GREW  241 

striving  might  fulfill,  my  thought,  groping,  stumbling 
and  then  leaping  has  found — woman,  or,  let  me  say, 
man  and  woman.  In  the  effort  of  man  and  woman 
to  know  each  other  I  have  found  that  they  learn  to 
know  themselves.  I  have  found  a  struggle,  an  en 
deavor,  which  seemed  itself  not  a  mere  means  but  an 
end  itself — an  end  which  might  be  called  in  pedantic 
phrasing,  the  development  of  character.  And  is  this 
not  the  purpose  of  the  individual  life,  or  at  least  the 
immediate  purpose,  which  is  about  as  far  as  the 
little  human  mind  is  able  to  explore? 

Is  not  the  great  achievement  of  mankind  through 
all  the  ages  the  development  of  the  power  of 
thought?  The  power  of  thought  of  the  mass  comes 
from  character  development  in  the  individual.  Does 
this  not  explain  why  the  world  in  its  lasting  judg 
ments  pays  tribute  to  greatness  even  though  ma 
levolent,  pays  tribute  to  its  strong  minds  even  though 
they  radiated  their  force  from  weak  bodies?  The 
evil  that  the  ambition  of  Napoleon  wrought  upon 
his  own  and  succeeding  generations  may  far  out 
weigh  any  material  benefits  which  he  conferred.  Yet 
he  has  given  mankind  a  dream,  a  vision  of  power, 
that  gives  his  name  a  glory  even  in  the  thought  of 
those  who  condemn  utterly  his  deeds.  While  knowl 
edge  of  the  diseased,  ignoble  life  of  Oscar  Wilde 
remains  it  will  furnish  no  bad  example  to  lead  youth 
astray,  but  rather  aid  others  to  avoid  his  tragic 
weaknesses.  But  the  mind  that  could  leave  the 
world  even  De  Profundis  alone,  has  given  to  man- 


242  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

kind  the  inspiration  for  soul  growth  that  must  live 
and  flower  into  times  when  the  memory  of  one  soiled 
life  has  been  wholly  lost. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  danger  in  such  philosophy 
as  this.  One  may  regard  his  emotions  as  too  im 
portant,  forgetting  that  all  emotional  experience  may 
not  mean  mental  growth  and  that  man  has  been  given 
a  brain  with  which  to  value  his  emotions  and  to  con 
trol  them.  For  example,  my  emotions  might  readily 
deceive  me  as  to  Mary  and  Irma;  and  I  might  im 
agine  that  that  stimulation  which  comes  to  me  from 
association  with  Irma  was  potential  with  greater 
experience  of  life  than  the  less  keen  inspiration  that 
I  find  in  Mary.  Recently  this  possible  error  has 
been  made  very  clear  to  me. 

Mary  and  I  both  have  long  desired  children.  But 
gradually  our  hopes  have  dulled.  Now  we  have  a 
renewed  hope — more  than  that — an  expectation. 
Thus  a  new  and  very  great  interest  has  come  into 
our  lives  and  one  which  is  drawing  us  daily  closer 
to  each  other.  I  wish  I  could  write  down  the  spirit 
ual  change  that  this  anticipation  is  making  in  both 
of  us.  For  the  moment  it  seems  to  me  profound, 
but  I  must  wait  until  I  can  look  back  upon  the  phase 
through  which  we  are  passing  and  comprehend  its 
full  meaning. 


Long,  dragging  weeks  have  passed  since  I  laid 
down  my  pen  at  the  ring  of  the  telephone  that 
brought  me  that  dreadful  summons  to  come  home. 


THE  GOD  WHO  GREW  243 

I  have  been  beaten  down  by  the  "bludgeoning  of 
chance"  and  I  take  up  the  effort  of  writing  again, 
not  because  I  wish  to  do  so,  but  because  I  feel  that 
I  must  somehow  work  my  way  up  and  out  of  this 
sodden  depression.  My  other  work  does  not  interest 
me.  Perhaps  this  may. 

The  telephone  bell  called  me  home  to  find  that 
scented,  chintz-hung  room  of  Mary's  turned  into  a 
hospital.  A  doctor  and  a  nurse  imperatively  sum 
moned  were  working  over  the  white  form  stretched 
out  on  the  gay  enameled  bed  which  was  covered  with 
a  rubber  sheeting.  The  trembling  maid  met  me  in 
the  hall  and  began  an  unintelligible  explanation  of 
what  had  happened.  I  pushed  her  aside.  The  sur 
geon  waved  me  back  as  I  entered  the  bedroom.  I 
stood  irresolutely  in  the  doorway  until  finally  he 
straightened  up  from  his  task  and  motioned  me  into 
the  next  room. 

At  first  I  could  not  understand  him.  Then  I  began 
to  get  the  simple  facts  behind  his  professional  terms. 
Conception  had  occurred  in  the  wrong  place,  and 
with  growth  had  come  the  inevitable  hemorrhage. 
It  was  too  late.  She  could  not  live.  Yes,  I  could 
be  with  her.  Nothing  could  injure — or  help — her. 

I  knelt  beside  the  bed  with  intolerable  anguish, 
tortured  with  a  hundred  futile  regrets.  A  pathet 
ically  weak  arm  slipped  over  my  head.  I  tried  to 
whisper  comfort  but  could  only  give  voice  to  tears. 
Once  her  eyes  opened  for  a  momentary  stare  of 
terror  that  struck  into  me  like  a  knife.  Then  her 
gaze  softened  tenderly  and  she  moved  her  hand 


244  THE  GOD  WHO  GREW 

gently  on  my  head.  A  wonderful  light  of  peace  came 
upon  her  white  face.  That  was  the  end.  She 
seemed  to  drift  out  of  my  arms.  I  was  holding  a 
body  that  was  no  longer  her. 

I  can't  write  of  the  days  that  followed.  I  did  not 
live  through  them.  I  merely  moved  through  a  series 
of  meaningless  events.  Everything  real  had  ceased. 
Then  slowly  the  real  world  reasserted  itself.  But 
it  was  a  new  world,  wherein  all  the  old  values  seemed 
to  have  changed.  I  found  myself  sitting  in  the  office 
one  morning  looking  at  a  large  check  that  had  just 
arrived  in  payment  of  a  long  overdue  account. 

I  thought:  "Now  I  can  pay  up  those  bills  that 
Mary  has  been  worrying  over."  Then  I  realized 
that  Mary  had  ceased  to  worry,  that  I  could  never 
again  relieve  her  of  any  trouble.  Suddenly  her  little 
extravagances  took  on  a  new  appearance.  They 
were  opportunities  for  me  to  do  things  for  her. 
There  would  be  no  more  of  those  opportunities.  I 
had  the  feeling  that  I  had  nothing  left  to  work  for. 
There  was  no  one  who  needed  me.  What  a  deaden 
ing  thought:  "no  one  who  needed  me."  The  un 
reality  of  the  past  days  broke  into  a  terrible  reality 
of  loss  and  I  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  I  was  back 
in  the  world  again — no  longer  a  world  of  doubts 
and  vexations,  a  world  of  sorrow.  Sorrow  is  the 
most  intense  reality  of  life.  In  suffering  there  is 
truth. 

Now  I  know  many  things.  Now  I  know  that  I 
loved  Mary.  It  was  not  for  what  she  could  give 
to  me,  but  for  what  I  could  give  to  her.  She  was 


THE  GOD  WHO  GREW  245 

my  opportunity  and  I  never  realized  it  until  she  was 
gone.  Through  her  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
Purpose  and  yet  in  my  blindness  I  often  thought  that 
she  stood  between  me  and  self-realization.  I  had 
believed  that  I  knew  Christ's  teaching.  But  only 
now  did  I  understand  that  one  can  only  find  his  own 
soul  through  losing  it  in  the  soul  of  another. 

Still  dimly  and  yet  more  clearly  than  ever  before 
I  see  the  Purpose.  To  work  toward  it  through  one 
other  life  has  now  been  denied  to  me.  But  of  this 
much  I  am  sure,  that,  at  least  for  him  to  whom  there 
is  any  vision  given,  there  is  an  obligation  to  serve; 
if  through  one  life  it  should  be  a  happy  service;  if 
through  many  lives  there  may  be  less  joy  in  the 
labor  but  perhaps  the  hope  of  greater  achievement 
in  the  end. 


BOOK  IV 
PURPOSE 


CHAPTER  XX 

POWER 

THERE  is  too  little  of  politics  in  what  I  have 
written  to  make  it  thoroughly  represent  my 
experience.  But  I  have  been  much  impressed 
with  the  triviality  of  political  detail.  Its  importance 
is  exaggerated  by  those  engaged  and  its  narration  is 
certain  to  bore  everyone  not  immediately  concerned. 
All  that  I  need  say  now  is  that  after  many  years 
of  petty  work  full  of  disappointment  and  disillusion 
ment  I  came  finally  to  the  achievement  of  a  certain 
position  and  influence  in  the  presidential  campaign 
of  1916. 

My  prominent  position  in  the  Republican  party 
made  my  final  decision  to  support  Wilson  against 
Hughes  a  matter  of  some  national  interest.  This 
decision,  I  may  remark,  was  one  of  the  most  difficult 
and  I  think  one  of  the  least  self-regardful  that  I 
have  ever  made.  All  my  affection  and  respect  for 
Colonel  Roosevelt  urged  me  to  follow  him  in  sup 
port  of  the  Republican  nominee.  Furthermore,  I 
expected  confidently  that  Hughes  would  win.  Even 
if  Wilson  should  win  I  had  no  anticipation  of  any 
personal  profit  from  espousing  his  cause.  He  was 
more  noted  for  ignoring  faithful  supporters  than  for 

249 


25o  POWER 

rewarding  them,  as  some  of  my  closest  friends  in 
his  camp  had  assured  me  with  much  bitterness. 

Yet,  as  the  campaign  progressed  I  felt  more  and 
more  repelled  by  the  forces  gathering  behind 
Hughes.  During  the  summer  I  found  it  necessary  to 
travel  half  across  the  country  to  expose  a  mean  en 
deavor  by  the  Republican  campaign  management  to 
put  Roosevelt  himself  in  the  position  of  truckling 
to  men  whose  purposes  he  detested  but  whose  votes 
were  desired  for  Hughes. 

While  listening  to  my  leader's  cyclonic  wrath 
against  those  whom  he  was  doing  his  best  to  aid  and 
who  had  met  his  generosity  with  this  treachery,  my 
decision  was  made.  When  peace  had  been  restored 
and  he  had  gone  forward  on  his  hard  mission  to  aid 
in  the  election  of  the  man  he  regarded  as  the  lesser 
evil,  I  left  him  without  a  statement  of  my  purpose 
but  resolved  that  such  strength  as  I  had  should  be 
exerted  for  the  candidate  who  at  least  expressed  and 
inspired  the  higher  ideals,  even  though  his  perform 
ances  had  not  equaled  his  professions. 

The  election  result  gave  me  considerable  prestige. 
I  found,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  that  I  had  some 
real  influence  in  Washington.  The  government  po 
sition  which  was  offered  me  came  with  so  slight  an 
effort  on  my  part  and  was  pregnant  with  so  many 
opportunities  for  doing  something  worth  while  that 
I  accepted  with  little  hesitation.  I  wondered  when  I 
did  so  if  the  fact  that  Irma  was  living  in  Washington 
affected  my  judgment.  Ever  since  Mary's  death  I 
have  been  curiously  sensitive  to  admitting  to  myself 


POWER  251 

any  interest  in  Irma.  Somehow  it  hasn't  seemed 
quite  fair  to  Mary  that  I  should  allow  my  thought 
to  go  to  any  other  woman. 

While  Mary  was  alive  I  resented  the  idea  that  she 
had  any  right  to  monopolize  all  my  interest  in 
womankind.  Yet  it  has  seemed  as  though  a  respect 
for  her  memory  required  me  to  grant  this  monopoly 
to  her  after  she  had  given  her  life  in  the  effort  to 
carry  our  lives  forward  into  another  generation. 
This  feeling  has  kept  me  away  from  Irma  since  I 
have  come  to  Washington.  I  have  seen  her  a  few 
times  but  she  has  answered  my  constraint  with  a 
seeming  indifference  which  has  hurt  me,  has  made 
it  easier  for  me  to  absorb  myself  in  work  and  has 
prevented  my  loneliness  of  spirit  from  seeking  con 
solation  in  her  companionship. 

As  I  write  these  words,  I  am  sitting  in  my  hotel 
room  in  the  late  evening.  Over  a  jumbled  mass  of 
government  buildings  I  can  see  the  Washington 
monument,  strongly  illumined.  Like  the  answer  to 
a  prayer  it  points  steadily  upward,  seeking  to  direct 
the  earth-walking  leaders  of  a  nation  to  turn  their 
thoughts  on  high.  We  are  on  the  verge  of  war — a 
plunge  of  one  hundred  million  people  into  the  great 
est  and  most  terrible  conflict  of  all  the  ages  of  human 
knowledge.  Tasks  are  imminent  of  heavier  respon 
sibility  than  ever  assumed  by  any  men  of  this  or  of 
probably  any  previous  generation.  Of  what  impor 
tance  is  my  individual  comfort  or  happiness  or  that 
of  any  other  man  charged  with  any  part  of  this  re 
sponsibility? 


252  POWER 

Soon  we  shall  be  separating  husbands  from  wives 
and  sons  from  mothers,  some  for  a  long  time  and 
some  forever.  We  shall  be  destroying  deliberately 
a  host  of  lives  and  countless  human  aspirations;  we 
shall  be  spending  recklessly  the  accumulated  treas 
ures  of  business  and  family  life  with  a  ruthless  de 
mand  that  all  individual  happiness  shall  be  sacrificed 
in  a  common  adventure  for  the  common  welfare. 
We  believe  that  we  are  utterly  right  in  doing  this, 
yet  in  our  hearts  we  know  that,  as  in  every  great 
human  decision,  we  may  be  utterly  wrong.  And 
there  beyond  the  window  is  that  great,  white  finger 
pointing  upward.  Whether  we  do  right  or  wrong, 
at  least  our  purpose  must  be  high,  our  endeavor 
must  be  lofty  or  else  we  must  be  self-condemned 
beyond  all  forgiveness. 

Surely  it  is  no  time  for  me  to  be  thinking  of  the 
love  of  a  woman — unless  perhaps  of  the  love  of  one 
whose  spirit  has  followed  that  great  white  finger  into 
the  Unknown.  All  the  love  that  I  can  give  to  that 
woman  will  be  free  from  any  small  passions  that  may 
weaken  the  hand  or  dim  the  eye  that  are  called  upon 
for  utter  service  to  the  Purpose. 

From  the  street  below  come  the  confused  sounds 
of  ordinary  night  life  in  a  busy  city.  Street  cars, 
automobiles,  voices,  the  patter  of  many  feet — all 
tell  of  people  going  about  their  customary  business 
and  pleasure  seeking.  I  think  of  them  as  careless 
people,  yet  probably  in  every  mind  there  is  some 
thing  of  the  thought  which  is  in  mine.  Men  who 
know  that  they  must  fight  are  wondering  how  long 


POWER  253 

a  span  of  life  is  left  for  them;  men  who  will  not  fight 
are  speculating  on  their  possibilities  of  sacrifice  or 
profit.  Women  are  clinging  a  little  closer  to  their 
dear  ones  who  have  suddenly  become  more  precious, 
more  indispensable.  Men  of  responsibility  are  walk 
ing  less  lightly,  are  thinking  ahead  with  less  confi 
dence,  are  clenching  their  mental  grip  on  a  few  ideas 
that  seem  to  have  fixed  value  in  a  time  when  most 
values  are  in  flux. 

While  I  have  been  writing  I  have  been  waiting  for 
a  summons.  This  afternoon  I  was  informed  that 
the  President  might  wish  to  see  me  late  in  the 
evening  and  I  stated  that  I  would  remain  in  my 
room  until  called. 


The  telephone  bell  rang.  It  was  Irma.  She  said 
she  would  like  to  see  me.  She  wanted  to  talk  about 
some  war  work  that  she  had  in  mind.  She  is  living 
with  the  Grinsmores,  acting  as  secretary  to  Mrs. 
Grinsmore,  who  has  already  organized  two  national 
women's  aid  societies  which  may  find  some  usefulness 
in  the  coming  struggle.  Irma  is  skeptical  but  I  have 
assured  her  that  almost  any  organization  may  serve 
some  good  end — even  a  Grinsmore  society.  I  told 
Irma  that  I  must  remain  here,  but  I  promised  to 
see  her  to-morrow  evening  if  possible.  Her  voice 
was  very  friendly.  It  gave  me  something  of  a  thrill 
to  hear  her  speak.  But  I  cannot,  I  must  not,  allow 
myself  the  pleasure  of  seeking  that  thrill. 


254  POWER 

Now  I  have  heard  from  the  White  House.  In 
half  an  hour  I  am  due  for  my  appointment.  In  the 
work  I  see  crowding  before  me  there  will  be  little 
time  for  writing.  Perhaps  this  story  will  have  no 
end,  in  which  case  I  doubt  if  there  has  been  any  use 
in  setting  it  down.  If  I  find  that  I  am  to  undergo 
any  of  the  great  hazards,  in  which  I  hope  I  may 
play  some  part,  I  shall  arrange  that  this  manuscript 
shall  be  destroyed  in  the  event  that  I  am  not  left  to 
finish  it.  Up  to  the  present  moment  I  feel  that  my 
living  has  had  little  significance  unless  it  has  been  the 
introduction  to  a  life  in  which  there  shall  be  some 
real  achievement,  something  to  indicate  that  it  is 
worth  while  to  have  faith  in  the  Purpose. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
REACTION 

IT  is  December  n,  1918.     For  one  year  and  a 
half  I  have  been  swinging  into  war  work  every 
ounce  of  energy  which  I  could  create.     I  have 
been   inordinately   busy,   often   working   for   weeks 
with  no  sense  of  accomplishment,  then  finding  a  thrill 
in  a  few  vivid  days  that  more  than  repaid  for  all 
the  drudgery.    War  is  horrible  but  it  is  high  adven 
ture.    Even  little  moves  in  the  great  game  are  played 
with  a  stake  of  lives  and  fortunes  that  must  give 
them  tragic  importance. 

Once  I  acted  as  a  special  representative  of  the 
President  in  preventing  the  spread  of  a  strike  of 
freight  handlers.  As  I  sped  north  from  Washington 
I  chafed  at  every  slowing  down  of  the  express  train. 
A  few  hours'  delay  in  reaching  my  destination  might 
mean  a  loss  of  days  in  providing  men  to  load  the 
huge  steamships  whose  cargoes  were  desperately 
needed  "over  there."  A  halt  of  days  in  delivery 
of  supplies  to  the  battle  lines  might  mean  a  weakness 
at  some  vital  point  in  a  crucial  moment.  If  the  men 
filling  those  lines  could  not  hold  them  until  more  men 
could  be  sent — the  whole  war  might  be  lost.  That 
one  inconspicuous  man  traveling  north  from  Wash 
ington  should  not  be  delayed  an  hour  seemed  a  mat- 

255 


256  REACTION 

ter  of  vast  consequence.  Yet  when  I  arrived  it  took 
me  three  days  even  to  get  the  necessary  leaders  into 
one  room  where  we  could  fight  out  differences  of  pur 
pose  and  opinion  across  a  small  table.  Three  weeks 
passed  before  the  trouble  had  been  ironed  out  and 
I  returned  to  Washington,  utterly  weary  with  the 
nervous  strain,  to  be  congratulated  on  the  excep 
tional  speed  with  which  a  difficult  negotiation  had 
been  brought  to  a  successful  end. 

All  through  the  war  work  the  contrast  was  forced 
upon  me  persistently  between  men  who  wore  them 
selves  down  with  the  pace  they  set  themselves  and 
those  placid  official  tape-weavers,  to  whom  depart 
mental  rules  and  customs  were  a  sacred  ritual  whose 
meticulous  observance  was  of  more  vital  interest  than 
the  smashing  of  the  Hindenburg  line.  There  was 
a  continual  contest  wherein  we  irreverent  civilians 
fought  day  and  night  to  slash  and  pound  our  way 
through  entanglements  of  red  tape  and  barriers  of 
official  regulations  which  met  us  everywhere  when 
we  attempted  to  hurry  anything  through  the  govern 
ment  offices. 

In  various  trips  to  the  other  side  I  found  that 
conditions  in  some  parts  of  officialdom  were  better 
and  in  some  much  worse  than  at  home.  Through  the 
costly  lessons  of  four  years'  fighting  many  lines  for 
direct  action  in  matters  of  military  necessity  had  been 
laid  out  and  were  kept  open.  But  in  all  political 
matters  I  found  that  our  problems  in  America  were 
refreshingly  simple  and  our  methods  comparatively 
honest,  when  contrasted  with  the  complicated  in- 


REACTION  257 

trigues  of  the  politicians  of  the  old  world.  In  justice 
to  our  President  I  must  say  that  he  kept  a  spirit  of 
high  endeavor  glowing  as  a  radiant  force,  which 
welded  separative  desires  and  ambitions  into  a 
common  national  purpose  of  extraordinary  strength*. 

Now  the  great  national  adventure  is  ended.  Al 
ready  I  can  see  and  feel  the  reaction  that  has  come 
from  straining  idealisms  beyond  their  normal  power. 
Men  and  women  alike  show  signs  of  weariness  with 
being  painfully  good  and  sacrificingly  noble  and 
utterly  brave.  The  most  earnest  war-workers  have 
begun  to  look  about  them  with  a  discontented  feeling 
that  somehow  their  pain  and  sacrifice  and  bravery 
has  not  profited  them  greatly  for  their  futures. 
They  observe  the  selfish  and  the  greedy  flaunting 
new  fortunes  in  public  places.  They  turn  back  to  the 
old  pre-war  work  and  find  it  disorganized,  worri 
some  and  also  very  dull. 

Last  evening  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Irma.  We 
were  both  quite  unhappy  and  much  disillusioned.  It 
is  the  first  time  that  I  have  seen  her  since  her  mar 
riage.  The  announcement  reached  me  in  Paris  and 
the  name  of  her  husband,  Captain  Edson  Fairfield, 
meant  nothing  to  me.  Last  night  she  showed  me  his 
photograph  and  told  me  his  story.  He  was  a  fa 
mous  football  player — at  Princeton,  I  believe — some 
ten  years  ago.  At  the  outbreak  of  the  war  he  was 
working  for  a  bond  house  in  New  York  City.  He 
came  out  of  the  first  officers'  training  camp  with  the 
rank  of  captain — a  fine  figure  in  a  uniform,  strong, 
rough-hewn  face,  in  every  way  appearing  a  natural 


258  REACTION 

leader.  In  war  as  in  football  he  was  in  his  element 
and  showed  to  best  advantage. 

Irma  had  met  him  several  times  in  New  York  and 
Washington  where  her  work  with  Mrs.  Grinsmore's 
societies  brought  her  into  frequent  contact  with  fledg 
ling  officers  of  some  social  prestige.  She  had  been 
much  attracted  to  him.  His  genuine  desire  to  get 
across  as  soon  as  possible  had  appealed  to  her  par 
ticularly.  She  was  sickened  with  the  desk-chair 
officers  who  crowded  into  Washington.  Captain 
Fairfield  had  evidently  quite  rushed  her  off  her  feet 
so  that  when  he  had  been  finally  assured  of  over 
seas  service  and  had  pleaded  with  her  to  marry  him, 
she  was  really  incapable  of  the  same  sort  of  con 
sideration  she  would  have  given  the  question  in 
normal  times.  Apparently  he  was  giving  so  much 
and  asking  so  little.  Like  most  men  of  the  young 
officer  class  he  had  acquired  the  attitude  that  he 
would  not  come  back.  He  wanted  only  to  realize 
for  a  short  time  the  dream  of  his  life,  marriage  to 
his  ideal,  and  then  he  would  gladly  give  his  all  to 
his  country.  So  they  were  married. 

Fairfield  had  fulfilled  all  her  expectations  as  a 
soldier.  He  had  made  a  distinguished  record,  had 
been  decorated  three  times  and  was  now  a  colonel. 
But  her  brief  married  experience  and  his  letters  ha"d 
given  Irma  full  knowledge  that  although  Colonel 
Fairfield  might  be  a  husband  of  whom  she  could  be 
proud,  Mr.  Fairfield  was  going  to  be  a  difficult  hus 
band  with  whom  to  spend  the  rest  of  her  days.  The 
banality  of  his  interests  in  life  had  been  a  sad  dis- 


REACTION  259 

covery.  Even  as  a  money-maker  his  ten  years' 
performance  since  leaving  college  was  not  impres 
sive.  He,  himself,  realized  his  limitations  and, 
worst  of  all,  seemed  willing  to  accept  them.  He  had 
even  discussed  with  her  the  possibility  of  remaining 
in  the  army. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,"  she  said  drearily,  "but 
what  that  would  be  the  best  career  open  to  him. 
But  I  don't  believe  he  would  rise  very  far  in  the 
service.  You  know  the  requirements  for  higher 
command  in  the  modern  army  are  pretty  severe." 

"Perhaps  he  has  never  tried  to  develop  himself," 
I  suggested.  "Life  has  not  called  upon  him  heavily. 
This  new  responsibility  as  a  married  man.  .  .  .  You 
might  inspire  him  to  broaden  his  capacities." 

"Rodney,"  she  answered,  "I  hate  to  say  it,  but  he 
hasn't  the  ambition.  He  likes  adventure,  but  not 
hard  work.  He  rejects  drudgery  and  he  hasn't  the 
imagination  to  go  ahead  by  leaps." 

"But  he  loves  you,"  I  said;  "that  must  inspire  him 
to  some  effort." 

"He  loves  me,  in  his  way,  yes,  he  loves  me  now. 
He  has  loved  many  times  before.  It  is  that  kind  of 
love.  He  wouldn't  love  a  taskmaster.  I  can't  be 
that  and  hold  his  love.  Is  it  wrong  for  me  to  talk 
this  way?  You're  an  old  friend.  I  must  talk  to 
someone." 

Her  eyes  were  heavy  with  tears  and  her  voice 
trembled.  I  rose  and  walked  across  the  room.  I 
had  to  move  somewhere  away  from  her  as  I  suddenly 
felt  myself  drawn  to  kneel  beside  her  chair  and  put 


26o  REACTION 

my  arms  about  her.  Standing  at  a  safe  distance  I 
began  to  speak. 

"Irma,  I've  been  trying  to  be  of  a  little  service  to 
my  country  in  a  time  of  war.  Maybe  I've  been  of 
some  use,  but  there  is  no  one  who  can  tell  me  so 
and  give  me  the  thrill  of  personal  appreciation.  It 
is  all  very  impersonal.  I  even  know  that  I  was  not 
indispensable.  If  I  had  not  done  my  job  another 
man  would  have  done  it  just  as  well  or  better.  I 
should  like  to  feel  that  I  am  of  some  real  use  to 
someone — that  I  can  do  for  someone  what  no  one 
else  can  do.  Perhaps  you  might  give  me  that  chance. 
If  I  could  help  you  and  see  in  your  eyes  something 
that  told  me  that  I  was  of  real  service  to  another 
human  being  I  should  be  quite  happy.  So  if  you 
care  to  confide  in  me  it  will  be  a  favor  to  me." 

"I  want  to  confide  in  you,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't 
want  to  be  unfair  to  him.  He  is  fine  and  true  and 
I  have  been  proud  of  him — I  am  proud  of  him — as 
my  soldier  husband.  But  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairfield 
we  will  grow  apart,  not  together.  Our  ambitions, 
our  interests  are  so  different.  It  was  part  of  the  war 
madness  that  we  married.  Even  he  understands 
that.  We  both  knew  it  before  he  sailed,  but  we 
pretended  to  each  other." 

When  I  returned  to  my  room  last  night  I  was 
sore  in  spirit.  I  had  kept  myself  from  saying  any 
thing  of  what  I  felt,  but  I  knew  the  full  bitterness  of 
Irma's  mistake — and  of  mine.  In  the  old  days  when 
I  denied  to  myself  my  love  for  her  I  did  it  in  self- 
protection.  I  pretended  to  be  doubtful  of  the 


REACTION  261 

extent  of  my  love  for  her  in  order  to  make  life  with 
out  her  more  tolerable.  I  deceived  myself  to  such 
an  extent  that  when  the  war  came  on  I  did  not  tell 
Irma  anything  of  my  hidden  thought,  in  order  that 
I  might  be  wholly  free  to  do  what  seemed  to  be  my 
appointed  task. 

Perhaps  Irma  did  not  love  me  but  I  feel  that  she 
deceived  herself  somewhat  as  I  did.  I  am  not  sure 
that  she  loves  me  now.  I  must  go  on  repeating  what 
I  said  to  myself  so  many  times  in  the  past,  that  I  am 
not  sure  that  we  would  be  well  mated.  But  this  I 
do  know,  that  each  has  an  appeal  for  the  other,  that 
we  are  helpful  to  each  other,  that  we  should  have 
known  each  other  better,  that  we  should  have  come 
closer  long  ago  in  order  that  we  might  know  the 
value  of  what  we  could  do  for  one  another.  This 
intimacy  might  have  saved  us  both  from  what  I  feel 
is  much  impending  unhappiness. 

Self-denial  has  been  made  a  virtue  in  itself  by 
much  of  that  religious  teaching  which  gives  us  our 
moral  traditions.  To  deny  oneself  an  action  that 
one  desires  may  be  necessary  or  wise  or  righteous. 
But,  to  deny  the  existence  of  a  desire  that  one  feels, 
to  deny  its  contemplation,  consideration  and  valua 
tion  is  a  denial  of  actual  experience.  It  has  been 
well  said  that  "to  deny  one's  own  experiences  is  to 
put  a  lie  into  the  lips  of  one's  own  life." 

While  I  was  married,  I  insisted  so  far  as  I  could, 
on  denying  the  existence  of  a  strong  interest  in  Irma, 
lest  by  admitting  it  to  myself  this  should  interfere 
with  a  proper  fulfillment  of  my  obligations  to  Mary. 


262  REACTION 

Then  when  the  war  came  on  I  put  this  lie  into  my 
lips  again,  partly  as  a  tribute  to  Mary's  memory 
and  partly  to  keep  myself  free  for  a  full  devotion  of 
all  my  energies  to  governmental  work.  In  all  this  I 
denied  to  myself  that  inspiration  which  thought  of 
Irma  has  always  given  me,  that  aspiring  desire  which 
drives  men  to  do  their  best,  which  lifts  the  imagina 
tion  beyond  the  immediate  task  and  gives  vision. 

Now  I  am  mentally  clouded  through  lying  to  my 
self,  uncertain  of  my  feeling  for  Irma  as  well  as  of 
her  feeling  for  me.  Yet  these  feelings  are  real 
forces  in  our  lives  and  both  of  us  should  know  them 
as  they  are,  their  power  and  their  value. 


Another  month  has  passed  and  my  work  in  Wash 
ington  is  nearly  finished.  I  have  seen  much  of  Irma. 
The  more  I  see  of  her,  watching  the  interplay  of  her 
thought  and  her  emotion,  the  deeper  is  the  devotion 
which  I  feel,  the  more  intense  is  my  exaltation  in  her 
presence  and  the  more  powerful  is  her  attraction 
for  me  in  absence.  The  day  without  sight  of  her  is 
empty,  but  even  her  voice  over  the  telephone  stirs 
music  in  my  heart  that  carries  me  happily  through 
succeeding  hours.  There  is  a  light  in  her  eyes  that 
gives  me  her  thought  of  me  more  plainly  than  any 
words.  I  should  not  dare  to  say  that  she  loves  me 
but  at  least  I  know  that  I  bring  her  good  cheer. 

In  a  literal  way  I  have  not  made  love  to  Irma. 
I  have  not  said  that  I  adore  her,  that  I  wish  to  be 
with  her  in  every  hour.  We  have  simply  been  to- 


REACTION  263 

gether  so  much  and  have  talked  ourselves  out  to 
each  other  so  completely,  that  we  know  quite  in 
tensely  how  we  care  for  each  other.  According  to 
bell,  book  and  candle  ritual  I  suppose  this  intimacy 
must  be  labeled  a  wicked  thing,  yet  we  who  have  felt 
it  know  that  it  is  not  at  all  wicked,  but  very  good  and 
beautiful. 

When  Irma's  soldier  husband  returns  next  month 
I  shall  have  returned  to  Chicago  and  nothing  of  my 
presence  will  disturb  this  reunion.  But  if  she  thinks 
of  what  we  have  been  to  each  other  and  in  so  think 
ing  gives  less  value  to  what  she  and  her  husband  can 
be  to  each  other,  is  that  knowledge  a  wrong  to  him? 
If  this  is  a  wrong  then  should  the  right  relationship 
between  husband  and  wife  be  a  consecrated  decep 
tion?  Should  each  feel  bound  in  honor  to  put  a 
false  undervaluation  on  every  interest  in  any  other 
man  or  woman,  in  order  to  maintain  a  fictitious  value 
for  their  interests  in  each  other?  To  substitute  such 
an  agreed  falsity  for  truth,  as  the  foundation  for 
success  in  marriage,  seems  to  me  to  insure  unhappy 
homes. 

For  a  woman  of  Irma's  intelligence  any  permanent 
false  appraisement  of  her  husband  would  be  impos 
sible.  She  will  value  their  marriage  according  to  her 
standards  of  what  a  marriage  should  be,  rather  than 
by  any  comparison  with  what  it  could  be  with  anyone 
else.  If  she  believes  that  it  cannot  be  made  to  ap 
proach  what  marriage  should  be  to  her  she  will  rebel 
against  its  bondage.  Whatever  others  might  think 
I  feel  assured  that  she  will  consider  only  Colonel 


264  REACTION 

Fairfield  and  herself  in  passing  judgment.  I  shall 
not  be  in  the  picture.  Superficial  men  and  women 
may  compare  their  mates  with  other  possible  mates, 
but  those  who  have  brains  as  well  as  emotions  will 
judge  their  mates  by  their  ideals. 

It  seems  a  bit  foreign  to  my  mood  to  speak  of 
ideals.  For  the  time  I  feel  as  though  mine  were  in 
the  dust.  I  have  given  up  my  official  position  to  take 
the  position  of  general  counsel  for  a  company  in 
Chicago,  which,  as  I  know  very  well,  regards  rriy 
Washington  connections  and  influence  as  a  larger 
asset  than  my  legal  ability.  On  all  sides  I  see  men 
scrambling  out  of  public  work  into  opportunities  for 
private  advantage.  Patriotic  fervor  seems  to  have 
reached  its  climax  on  Armistice  Day.  With  the 
morning  after,  came  the  realization  that  the  wonder 
ful  common  adventure  had  ended  and  that  the  ol'd 
life  of  every  man  for  himself  was  about  to  be  reas 
serted. 

On  every  hand  I  have  heard  men  talking  of  their 
duties  to  their  families  and  to  themselves,  expressing 
sentiments  in  themselves  laudable  and  yet  combined 
with  a  certain  cynicism  as  to  their  future  duties  to 
society  in  general.  I  have  a  hard  feeling  that  I  have 
sacrificed  what  might  have  been  a  great  love  and 
possibly  an  ideal  home,  that  I  have  deprived  my 
mother  of  happiness  which  she  deserves  richly,  that 
I  have  denied  myself  the  money  gains  that  would 
mean  ease  and  pleasure,  that  I  have  lived  frugally, 
that  I  have  made  myself  oblivious  to  simple  and  not 
dishonest  means  of  self-enrichment,  and  that  in  the 


REACTION  265 

days  to  come  I  may  wonder  what  I  accomplished 
worth  all  these  costs.  I  am  sure  that  this  is  only  a 
temporary  reaction.  I  believe  that  I  should  choose 
the  same  course  again  under  the  same  conditions. 
But  there  seems  no  justification  for  continuing  this 
course  now. 

Therefore,  I  am  going  back  to  Chicago,  intent  on 
making  money,  determined  to  attain  a  strong  ma 
terial  position  in  a  materialistic  world.  Already  in 
Europe  are  beginning  the  quarrels  over  the  spoils 
of  their  victory — of  our  victory  it  seems  to  me. 
Hard  voices  are  rising  throughout  the  nation  de 
manding  that  we  seize  our  share  of  the  spoils.  The 
idealists  have  had  their  day  inspiring  sacrifice,  and 
now  the  plunderers  are  rising  again  to  resume  their 
ancient  leadership.  They  will  show  us  how  to  har 
vest  golden  fruits  from  the  fields  of  death. 

I  don't  intend  to  join  the  plunderers  but  I  intenH 
to  establish  myself  in  the  class  of  those  who  will  not 
be  their  victims.  And  I  perceive  that  the  near  future 
is  going  to  be  a  hard  time  for  the  humble.  The 
burdens  of  this  mad  cataclysm  must  be  loaded  upon 
some  shoulders,  and  the  humble  folk  have  ever  been 
the  burden-carriers  in  times  of  the  reckoning  for  the 
madness  of  their  masters. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
INTERMEZZO 

THE  summer  is  nearly  over.  I  have  had  some 
playtime  after  several  months  of  absorbing 
work.  In  a  business  way  I  have  been  quite 
successful.  I  have  acquired  a  substantial  interest  in 
the  Fanning  Company  and  aided  to  make  that  in 
terest  a  valuable  one.  Our  oil  operations  put  me 
in  the  way  of  several  opportunities  for  private  in 
vestment  out  of  which  I  have  been  able  to  turn  over 
sufficient  safe  bonds  to  provide  a  fair  support  for 
my  mother  regardless  of  what  may  happen  to  me. 
This  has  lifted  one  worry  from  me  and  made  me 
feel  freer  from  pressing  obligations  to  anyone  else 
than  I  have  felt  for  many  years. 

In  the  spring  an  unexpected  event  affectecl  deeply 
the  current  of  my  thought.  Jeannette's  husband  was 
killed  in  an  outlaw  raid  on  the  properties  in  Mexico 
of  which  he  had  charge.  Jeannette  herself  barely 
escaped  the  same  or  a  worse  fate.  My  first  informa 
tion  of  the  tragedy  came  in  a  telegram  which  she 
sent  me  from  El  Paso,  asking  me  to  telegraph  funds 
so  that  she  could  come  to  Chicago  where  she  expected 
to  collect  Jim's  life  insurance.  After  her  arrival 
there  was  considerable  delay  and  some  difficulty  in 
getting  the  money. 

266 


INTERMEZZO  267 

She  stayed  in  Chicago  nearly  a  month  and  I 
learned  all  about  her  situation.  Appreciating  the 
hazards  of  his  work  Jim  had  carried  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  of  life  insurance,  and  this  with  some 
small  savings  was  about  all  she  had  for  the  future. 
She  was  practically  alone  in  the  world  except  for  an 
uncle  in  Boston,  with  whom  she  had  never  been  very 
friendly  and  who  was  a  man  of  small  means. 

When  I  first  met  Jeannette  the  change  in  her  was 
shocking.  She  seemed  much  older  than  I,  her  hair 
was  quite  gray,  her  face  haggard  and  her  eyes  des 
perately  weary.  As  the  days  went  by  I  grew  more 
accustomed  to  some  of  these  appearances  and  ih 
many  ways  she  changed.  As  the  strain  of  recent 
years  wore  off  under  peaceful  living  in  a  quiet  up 
town  hotel,  her  old  vivacity  returned.  Her  eyes 
brightened,  color  came  back  into  her  cheeks  and  she 
even  took  on  flesh.  Still  the  impression  of  a  beau 
tiful  life  deeply  scarred  remained  to  make  its  con 
stant  appeal  to  my  sympathy. 

I  really  wanted  to  persuade  her  to  make  her  home 
in  Chicago.  I  wished  to  urge  her  to  stay  so  that 
we  could  be  together.  I  saw  her  almost  every  day 
and  enjoyed  being  with  her  immensely.  Yet  I  had 
no  desire  at  all  to  ask  her  to  marry  me.  In  fact, 
I  was  devotedly  interested  in  Irma  and  chafing  at  the 
delay  in  some  business  which  I  expected  would  take 
me  to  Washington.  Nevertheless,  companionship 
with  Jeannette  was  full  of  charm  and  I  hated  the 
thought  of  her  establishing  a  new  home  near  Boston 
as  she  was  planning. 


268  INTERMEZZO 

One  of  her  oldest  and  dearest  friends  was  the 
head  of  a  girls'  school,  the  one  in  which  Jeannette 
was  teaching  at  the  time  of  her  marriage.  This 
woman  had  asked  Jeannette  to  come  and  live  with 
her  for  a  time  with  a  view  to  taking  up  her  teaching 
again  in  the  Fall  if  she  felt  inclined  to  do  it.  It 
seemed  the  most  natural  and,  in  fact,  the  only  open 
ing  for  starting  a  new  life  which  was  presented  to 
her. 

It  was  not  until  the  night  before  she  left  Chicago 
that  it  even  occurred  to  me  as  a  possibility  that  Jean 
nette  and  I  could  ever  be  anything  to  each  other 
except  very  dear  friends.  That  evening  we  went 
out  for  dinner  to  one  of  the  open-air  gardens  that 
had  just  started  the  summer  season.  It  was  a  soft, 
warm  evening.  There  was  a  full  moon  that  gave 
even  the  tawdry  surroundings  a  magic  beauty.  The 
music  was  good  and  the  dance  floor  was  not  crowded. 

"I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  learn  any  of  these  new 
dances,"  she  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "and  I  don't 
feel  like  dancing  anyhow — not  that  I  should  not, 
you  understand.  Jim  didn't  believe  in  that  sort  of 
mourning.  But  I  don't  feel  like  hopping  around. 
Perhaps  if  they  ever  play  a  waltz,  a  slow  one,  I 
might  like  to  try,  to  see  if  I've  forgotten." 

Eventually  a  waltz  was  played — an  old  familiar 
tune — we  had  danced  to  it  in  Cambridge — oh,  how 
many  years  before!  And  as  we  waltzed  the  years 
dropped  away.  The  lights  around  the  dance  floor 
had  been  turned  off  and  the  moonlight  showed  a 
sweet  young  face  with  shining  eyes  under  the  droop- 


INTERMEZZO  269 

ing  hat.  It  was  Jeannette  of  the  empty  inn  at  Bald 
Pate,  Jeannette  of  the  fog  on  the  marshes,  that  I 
held  again  in  my  arms,  Jeannette  of  the  unquench 
able  spirit  of  pure  love,  that  gives  itself  for  the  joy 
of  giving.  I  held  her  a  little  closer  and  her  hand 
moved  lightly  across  my  arm,  like  the  ghost  of  a 
caress. 

We  walked  back  to  our  table  arm  in  arm  but 
without  speaking  and  sat  silent  for  some  time.  Then 
I  spoke,  clumsily: 

"It's  the  same  old  moon  a-shining,  isn't  it?  Do 
you  remember  that  song?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  remember,  same  old  moon, 
same  old  tune,  but  it's  not  the  same  old  girl!" 

"Disregarding  superficials,"  I  remarked,  "I  should 
say  that  it  was  very  much  the  same  girl." 

"Oh,  no,  no!  It's  a  very  different  girl,  Rodney. 
That  was  a  girl  of  dreams.  This  a  girl  who  knows, 
who  knows  what  life  can  be — how  dreadful  a  thing 
life  can  be!" 

"But,  knowing  how  dreadful  life  can  be  should 
also  make  one  appreciate  life  when  it  is  good." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  terrible  things  in  them 
selves,"  she  answered.  "I  was  thinking  of  how  a 
bad  start,  or  a  series  of  unhappy  events,  can  destroy 
all  life's  good  possibilities,  leaving  one  to  face  years 
of  empty  living.  That  is  how  dreadful  life  can  be !" 

I  could  think  of  nothing  comforting  to  say  so  I 
remained  silent,  and  after  a  little  time  she  spoke 
again : 

"Nothing  of  my  thought  of  Jim  is  bitter.     It  is 


270  INTERMEZZO 

all  very  sweet.  We  had  much  happiness  even  though 
we  lived  amid  alarms.  Now  he  is  gone  and  I  am 
once  more  alone.  I  felt  lonely  before  we  were 
married  but — now,  now  I  feel — oh,  so  utterly  alone! 
I  had  my  chance  to  choose  a  life  companion.  I 
wanted  companionship  for  life.  A  few  years  pass 
and  it  is  done.  I  don't  wish  that  I  had  chosen 
someone  else.  But  fate  seems  so  unkind.  Some 
women  only  want  a  man  for  a  few  years;  but  one 
thing  that  drew  me  to  Jim  was  the  certainty  that  Jim 
wanted  me  for  life  and  that  he  would  never  change. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  I  decided  to  give  you  up, 
Rodney." 

"Did  you  think  I  would  change?" 
"I  knew  you  would  change.     Perhaps  we  might 
have  changed  together  and  so  remained  the  same 
to  each  other.     But  I  wasn't  sure  that  I  would  and 
I  knew  that  you  must  change." 

"Why?  Why?  Did  you  think  I  was  fickle ?" 
"Oh,  not  light  minded,  but  just  impossible  minded. 
You  had  mental  attitudes  that  could  not  last.  You 
did  not  know  yourself.  You  were  essentially  a  boy 
who  must  grow  up.  Perhaps  you  always  will  be. 
You  haven't  stopped  changing  yet.  You  were  inter 
esting,  I  might  say  quite  lovable,  but  a  most  uncer 
tain  partner  for  a  life  journey." 

"You  think  that  I  am  still  that  sort." 
"You   have   settled  down   somewhat,   but   rather 
from  necessity  than  desire,  I  should  guess.     I  know 
that  you  are  still  experimenting  with  yourself  and 


INTERMEZZO  271 

you  would  undoubtedly  continue  the  experiment  in 
marriage." 

"Suddenly  I  see  myself  as  a  most  unstable  person. 
Evidently  you  would  advise  me  never  to  marry — for 
the  sake  of  the  wife  whom  I  should  make  unhappy." 

"No.  I  should  advise  you  never  to  marry  a 
woman  who  wants  to  settle  down  and  be  comfort 
able.  I  doubt  if  you  will  ever  settle  down  or  become 
comfortable." 

"And  you,  Jeannette,  you  want  to  settle  down  and 
be  comfortable?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  see  I  am  rejecting  you  again, 
although  this  time  I  wasn't  asked!" 

"But  you  realized  that  you  might  be?" 

"No,  I  think  your  interest  is  located  elsewhere. 
Too  bad  the  lady  is  married." 

"Why  did  you  think  that?" 

"Because  you  have  talked  so  much  lately  about 
the  proper  attitude  for  a  man  in  love  with  a  married 
woman,  that  I  knew  it  must  be  your  most  recent 
and  unsolved  problem  in  life." 

"Jeannette,  you  are  almost  malicious.  The  great 
problem  I  am  really  studying  now  is  how  I  can  know 
and  fulfill  the  purpose  of  my  being, — my  turbulent 
mind  having  the  present  obsession  that  there  is  some 
purpose  in  every  being." 

"But  there's  a  woman  in  your  purpose,  Rodney; 
a  very  attractive  woman  I  am  sure;  which,  of  course, 
makes  this  purpose  also  attractive." 

"You  are  playing  with  my  serious,  although  un 
stable,  emotions,"  I  said  with  mock  severity. 


272  INTERMEZZO 

"You  ought  to  have  someone  play  with  them, 
now  and  then,"  she  suggested.  "I  think  you  take 
them  far  too  seriously." 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  stay  in  Chicago  for  a 
few  weeks  longer  to  lighten  my  ponderous  spirit? 
I  don't  know  how  to  state  my  suggestion  respectably 
but  I  assure  you  that  I  make  it  most  respectfully." 

"I  would  not  be  willing!"  she  retorted,  with  a  very 
friendly  laugh.  "Nor  am  I  willing  to  stay  in  this 
garden  any  longer  this  evening.  In  another  hour 
you'll  be  making  love  to  me  and  as  I'm  not  the 
woman  of  your  purpose  I'll  show  you  that  at  least 
I'm  a  purposeful  woman.  I'm  going  home." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
TRIANGLE 

IT  was  some  weeks  after  that  dinner  talk  with 
Jeannette  when  I  put  the  question  which  she 
had  suggested  to  Irma.  We  were  sitting  in  that 
tiny  apartment  which  she  and  Colonel  Fairfield 
called  "The  Cell." 

"If  you  were  planning  an  ideal  marriage,  Irma, 
would  it  be  to  settle  down  with  a  congenial  compan 
ion  and  be  comfortable?" 

"Heaven  protect  me!  No!"  she  exploded.  "I 
never  want  to  settle  down,  or  be  comfortable.  That 
means  to  stop  growing  and  I  want  life  to  keep  on 
growing  even  after  it  begins  to  decay — if  you  can 
imagine  such  a  combination." 

"I  somewhat  guessed  your  answer.  How  about 
the  Colonel?  What  would  he  say?" 

"Let's  not  talk  about  Ed — because  if  I  start  I 
know  I  shall  say  too  much.  When  he  said  he  was 
going  out  to-night  I  told  him  I  should  ask  you  to 
come  up,  and  he  was  quite  unpleasant  about  it." 

"You  never  told  me  before  that  he  objected  to  me. 
He  has  always  treated  me  in  a  friendly  fashion.  In 
fact,  he  told  me  that  he  was  very  glad  to  have  me 
here,  because  he  said  you  liked  to  talk  about  books 
and  things  that  he  had  never  taken  much  interest 
in,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  someone  around  who  had 

273 


274  TRIANGLE 

those  interests.  He  has  been  very  nice  about  it 
except  that  his  self-depreciation  has  embarrassed  me 
somewhat.  He  is  quite  genuine." 

"He  is  genuine  in  that,"  she  said.  "But  he  has 
been  getting  a  little  jealous  and  I've  been  thinking 
that  we  were  seeing  so  much  of  each  other  that  it 
was  really  unfair  to  expect  him  to  continue  to  be 
pleased.  To-day,  however,  was  the  first  outward 
sign  of  his  feeling.  It  has  disturbed  me  and  made 
me  think." 

"Does  Colonel  Fairfield  expect  to  re-establish  him 
self  in  New  York?"  I  asked  irrelevantly. 

"Probably,"  she  answered.  "His  work  here  with 
the  department  will  be  over  in  a  few  months,  unless 
he  should  be  assigned  to  the  historical  section  and 
decide  to  stay  in  the  service.  That  would  mean 
years  of  very  useful  work,  in  a  way.  But  it  would 
only  confirm  Edson  in  his  weaknesses.  I  told  hirh 
flatly  the  other  day  that  if  he  decided  to  stay  in  the 
service  I  should  leave  him.  It  would  be  utterly  im 
possible  for  me  to  tolerate  such  a  life  for  a  year. 
Therefore,  why  should  I  begin  the  hopeless  effort?" 

"And  he  said?" 

"He  said  that  he  had  practically  made  up  his  mind 
to  stay  in  the  service  until  I  delivered  my  ultimatum 
but  that  he  could  not  think  of  giving  me  up — he 
would  prefer  to  give  up  his  chosen  career — he  would 
go  back  to  New  York  and  resume  his  old  work 
again.  His  company  has  written  him  that  he  can 
come  back  to  his  'former  position  this  Fall,  if  he 
wishes.  So  that  is  what  he  expects  to  do." 


TRIANGLE  275 

"I  see  the  position  you  are  in." 

"Of  course  you  do;  it  is  the  worst  possible  one. 
He  gives  up  his  desires  in  order  to  have  me.  Then 
how  can  I  do  anything  except  go  through  with  him? 
But,  Rodney,  Ed  and  I  are  so  very  badly  mated, 
we  can't  make  a  success  of  our  lives  so  long  as  we 
stay  together.  Each  of  us  drags  the  other  down. 
It  may  be  that  this  War  Department  service  would 
be  just  the  thing  for  him — steady,  useful  work,  mak 
ing  no  special  demand  for  great  talent  yet  carrying 
with  it  the  accomplishment  of  something  worth 
doing,  an  endless  task  wherein  even  a  man  of 
limited  ability  might  work  himself  into  an  authori 
tative  position  that  would  broaden  him  almost  ih 
spite  of  himself. 

"On  the  other  hand,  if  Edson  goes  back  to  New 
York  he  will  slip  into  his  place  with  the  easy  getting, 
easy  spending  crowd,  most  of  whom  really  do  very 
little  to  earn  a  living — a  crowd  in  which  a  man  with 
his  lack  of  ambition  will  never  rise  very  far  and  yet 
never  be  forced  to  work  very  hard  to  keep  going. 
Our  lives  will  drift  along  until  I  go  frantic  with  the 
monotony  and  futility  of  living.  Some  day  I  shall 
explode.  I  won't  be  able  to  stand  it  many  years. 
Then  I  shall  be  responsible  for  having  spoiled  his 
best  chance  for  himself.  I  can  read  the  story  to  the 
end  and  it  is  all  wrong,  because  we  started  wrong, 
because  we  shouldn't  have  started  at  all." 

"Do  you  think  that  you  ought  to  stop,  now?"  I 
asked. 

"I  know  that  I  should,"  she  answered  quickly.    "It 


276  TRIANGLE 

isn't  that  I  don't  dare.  You  know,  Rodney,  that 
I'm  not  afraid.  I  haven't  even  the  worst  fear  of 
all — the  fear  to  begin.  Perhaps  that  is  a  great 
weakness,  that  I  do  not  fear  to  begin.  But  I  feel 
that  perhaps  I'm  shirking  my  appointed  task.  Per 
haps  I  undervalue  him.  Perhaps  I  could  'do  what 
he  says  that  I  could  do:  inspire  him  to  achieve.  I 
don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  But  he  does. 
I  dread  to  break  his  hope.  I  feel  it  would  be  wrong." 

"Irma,  do  you  think  that  a  man  who  feels  that  he 
must  lean  on  a  woman,  will  ever  get  far  so  long 
as  he  has  a  woman  to  lean  upon?" 

I  should  not  have  said  that,  but  the  words  seemed 
to  come  out  ahead  of  my  thought. 

"He  doesn't  lean  on  me,"  she  said,  in  quick  de 
fense.  "He  looks  upon  me  as  a  reason  for  doing 
things  which  otherwise  he  would  not  care  to  do.  He 
hasn't  many  illusions  or  dreams.  He  has  a  material 
view  of  life.  He'll  fight  for  his  country  in  time  of 
war  and  give  all  he  has.  But  he  has  no  special 
desire  to  serve  the  people  in  time  of  peace. 

"In  time  of  war  the  nation  becomes  a  reality  to 
him;  it  has  an  honor  to  protect,  a  flag  which  must 
go  forward.  He  loves  the  men  in  his  regiment.  He 
loves  the  army  as  a  great  fighting  force.  He  loves 
the  game  of  life  when  it  is  a  physical  fighting  game. 
But  in  time  of  peace  the  nation  is  to  him  a  conglom 
eration  of  selfish  individuals  leading  separate  lives, 
each  for  his  own  pleasure.  The  game  of  daily  living 
becomes  an  indoor  task,  as  uninteresting  to  him  as 
his  college  courses.  He  has  no  desire  to  play  any 


TRIANGLE  277 

conspicuous  part  in  this  game.  Service  to  society 
is  quite  an  empty  phrase.  He  is  at  his  best  as  a 
soldier.  He  recognizes  this.  He  should  remain  a 
soldier.  I  am  dragging  him  back  to  civilian  life — 
for  what? — for  our  common  unhappiness." 

She  stood  up  abruptly  and  walked  through  the 
door  into  the  little  bedroom,  just  off  the  living  room. 
I  sat  for  some  miserable  minutes  crumpled  in  my 
chair.  I  felt  as  sick  at  heart  as  she.  I  knew  that 
she  did  not  want  me  to  voice  my  vain  regrets  that 
intertwined  with  hers.  Yet  it  was  intolerable  to 
remain  silent.  I  walked  across  the  room,  turned 
back  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  It  tasted  bitter  and  I 
put  it  out. 

Should  I  be  dumb  and  let  her  fight  out  this  con 
flict  alone?  That  would  be  the  worldly  judgment. 
She  was  married.  She  belonged  to  someone  else. 
No,  she  did  not  belong  to  anyone.  She  was  simply 
married  to'  another  man,  a  man  who  loved  her. 
Well,  I  thought  defiantly,  I  love  her  too.  The  mere 
fact  of  his  love  gives  him  no  greater  right  than  my 
love  gives  me.  But  this  man  had  given  himself  to 
her,  was  standing  ready  to  continue  to  give  up  his 
own  ambitions  to  serve  her.  I  had  given  up  nothing 
for  her.  Nevertheless  my  failure  to  give  had  not 
been  selfish,  because  for  years  I  had  wanted  to  give 
her  anything  that  I  had  that  she  might  need  or  de 
sire. 

Now  she  was  facing  a  most  critical  decision.  If 
my  attitude  could  have  any  bearing  on  that  decision 
was  she  not  entitled  to  know  it?  Yet  if  she  decided 


278  TRIANGLE 

to  separate  from  her  husband  must  it  not  be  on  the 
basis  of  failure  in  that  marriage  rather  than  on  any 
thought  or  prospect  of  success  in  another?  Finally 
it  came  to  this:  Would  she  wish  me  to  speak  out? 
Would  it  make  her  problem  easier  or  harder? 
Should  I  not  suggest  my  thought  and  be  guided  by 
her  response?  I  began  to  put  my  feeling  for  her 
into  tentative  phrases.  The  moment  I  did  so  it  rose 
within  me  and  overflowed  my  self-control,  as  irre 
sistible  as  the  tides. 

I  stepped  over  to  the  closed  door  and  as  I  raised 
my  hand  to  knock,  she  opened  it. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  began.  Then  she  must  have 
read  in  my  eyes  all  that  I  would  say,  for  her  voice 
broke  and,  with  a  quick,  revealing  look  that  showed 
how  her  thought  had  met  mine,  she  turned  back, 
swayed  uncertainly  and  then  dropped  down  upon  a 
couch  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  arms.  For  what  followed  I  feel  no  more  respon 
sible  than  if  I  had  seen  her  sinking  in  deep  waters 
and  had  leaped  in  to  save  her.  All  that  I  was  con 
scious  of,  was  that  the  woman  I  loved  had  need  of 
me.  Nothing  else  in  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
exist  except  her  distress  and  my  desire  to  serve  her 
need. 

I  knelt  beside  her  and  told  her  that  I  loved  her 
and  that  there  was  no  purpose  in  living  to  be  com 
pared  to  the  desire  for  her  happiness,  no  joy  in  living 
except  in  the  thought  that  my  living  might  bring  her 
joy;  that  if  I  must  live  alone,  I  should  live  for  her; 
that  she  must  not  think  of  my  love  as  demanding 


TRIANGLE  279 

anything  of  her,  but  as  an  offering  of  all  that  I  migh't 
be  to  her,  as  she  might  be  able  to  use  me. 

It  seemed  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was 
utterly  sure  of  my  feeling  and  my  purpose  and  that 
it  was  all  inevitable  and  right.  I  think  that  in  the 
unrestrained  madness  of  declaring  my  long  pent-up 
emotion  I  found  my  greatest  certainty  in  life.  Even 
in  sub-conscious  wonderment  at  my  own  conviction, 
I  had  the  sense  that  it  was  final  and  unshakable. 
At  last  I  knew.  This  was  my  dream  come  true,  my 
dream  that  there  was  a  Purpose,  which  when  re 
vealed  would  banish  doubt. 

"This  may  be  utterly  wrong  of  me,"  I  whispered, 
"by  every  test  that  I  have  learned.  But  every  atom 
of  my  being  assures  me  that  it  is  right,  tells  me  that 
you  must  know,  tells  me  that  my  love  would  be  a 
weak  thing  if  it  did  not  smash  through  every  barrier 
between  us,  in  the  hour  of  your  need.  Perhaps  you 
don't  want  me,  but  I  know  that  you  want  my  love 
and  it  is  all  yours — without  a  condition — I'm  asking 
nothing  in  return." 

She  had  not  spoken.  But  she  had  not  turned  away 
as  I  had  put  my  arms  around  her  and  drawn  myself 
nearer  and  nearer  to  that  hidden  head.  Then  some 
how  her  arms  slipped  over  my  shoulders,  bringing 
my  eager  lips  close  to  her  white  throat.  For  a  long 
time  we  remained  motionless  save  as  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  against  my  cheek.  Then  I  ventured  to  look 
up  and  saw  her  eyes  shining  down  upon  me.  And 
as  I  looked  their  expression  underwent  a  terrible 
change — from  love  to  fear,  a  fear,  I  felt,  not  for 


28o  TRIANGLE 

herself  but  for  me.  Her  arms  relaxed.  I  turned, 
following  her  gaze,  and  through  the  open  door  of 
the  bedroom  saw  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment 
swung  open  and  Colonel  Fairfield  standing  there. 

I  stood  up  as  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him 
and  crossed  the  narrow  room.  Midway  he  stopped. 

"By  God!"  he  began,  and  then  seemed  at  a  loss 
for  anything  else  to  say.  There  was  nothing  for 
me  to  say,  so  I  waited  for  him.  After  a  long  pause 
he  began  again: 

"You  damned " 

"Stop  it!"  cried  Irma,  rising  and  brushing  by  me 
before  I  could  hold  her  back.  "This  isn't  going  to 
be  a  bar-room  brawl.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any 
deception  either.  You  have  seen  all  there  is  to  see. 
You  know  all  there  is  to  know.  So  let's  face  the 
facts  as  two  decent  men  and  a  decent  woman  should." 

"Decent?"  he  repeated  glaring  at  me  over  her  as 
she  stood  between  us. 

"Edson,"  she  said  sharply. 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  intently.  He  laid  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"You're  on  the  square,"  he  said  a  little  thickly. 
"I  believe  that,  even  after  what  I  saw.  But  this 
snake " 

He  pushed  her  to  one  side  and  took  a  step  toward 
me. 

"Are  you  stricken  dumb?"  he  demanded.  "Have 
you  anything  to  say  before  I  throw  you  out  of  here?" 

"Yes,  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say.  But  will  you 
listen?'' 


TRIANGLE  281 

He  had  come  very  close  to  me  and  from  the  look 
in  his  eyes  as  well  as  from  his  breath  I  knew  he  had 
been  drinking  heavily.  He  was  not  drunk,  but  very 
dangerous.  It  was  a  great  tribute  to  Irma  that  he 
had  not  attacked  me  already.  His  jaws  were  set 
and  lips  drawn  back  like  those  of  a  bull-dog  ready 
to  spring.  Irma  touched  his  arm. 

"You  must  listen,  Edson.  If  you  care  anything 
about  me  you  must  listen  and  be  just." 

"I'll  give  you  five  minutes,"  he  said,  plunging  into 
a  heavy  chair.  "But  you  remain  standing,  you  don*t 
sit  down  in  my  house  again." 

I  waved  back  Irma's  protest. 

"You  are  absolutely  right,  Colonel.  I'll  stand. 
Please  sit  down,  Irma." 

She  walked  over  beside  me. 

"If  the  culprits  are  to  stand,  then  I  must  stand," 
she  said.  "We  two  culprits  will  stand  together,  in 
your  house.  I  understand  it  is  no  longer  mine." 

He  half  rose.  His  face  grew  purple  red.  I  saw 
the  veins  stand  out  at  the  temples.  Then  he  flung 
himself  back  in  the  chair. 

"By  God,  you're  magnificent!"  he  muttered.  "Sit 
down,  both  of  you.  Sit  down  and  let's  get  this  over. 
But  don't  you  try  to  defend  my  wife."  He  shook 
his  finger  at  me.  "She  needs  no  defense  with  me. 
You  speak  for  yourself." 

"I  never  thought  of  questioning  that,"  I  answered. 
"Nor  shall  I  defend  myself.  I  wish  only  to  explain. 
I  haven't  allowed  myself  to  fall  in  love  with  your 
wife,  Colonel  Fairfield.  I  was  in  love  with  her  long 


282  TRIANGLE 

before  she  knew  you.  You  may  think  that  I  tried 
to  win  away  your  wife  when  you  were  serving  your 
country,  making  my  offense  worse  than  in  ordinary 
times.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  won  away 
from  me  the  woman  I  loved  when  I  was  doing  my 
best  to  serve  my  country,  and  I  hold  that  was  no 
wrong.  It  was  your  right.  But  you  have  made  me 
suffer,  so  don't  think  you  are  the  only  injured  one. 

"Then  when  I  came  back  home  and  found  that 
you  had  married  the  woman  I  loved,  I  did  not  try 
to  break  up  your  home.  You  will  believe  Irma,  if 
not  me,  and  she  will  tell  you  that  I  never  made  love 
to  her,  that  I  never  asked  her  to  leave  you.  You 
know  that  she  wouldn't  have  tolerated  that." 

Irma  broke  in. 

"Edson,  I've  been  unfair  to  you  in  one  thing.  I 
did  tell  Rodney  that  our  marriage  had  been  a  mis 
take,  just  as  I  have  told  you.  It  seemed  that  I  must 
talk  with  someone.  I  couldn't  think  this  all  out 
alone.  But  there  has  been  no  love-making.  That 
is  true.  You  saw  all  there  ever  was  to-night,  when 
I  became  overstrained  and  broke  down  and  Rodney 
tried  to  comfort  me. 

"Quite  comforting,  I'd  say,"  he  sneered,  his  face 
growing  very  hard. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  lie  out  of  this,"  I  said  hastily. 
"I  lost  my  self-control  and  told  Irma  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  that  I  loved  her.  I  intended  not  to 
do  that;  but  the  fact  is  that  I  did.  She  made  no 
answer  to  me.  If  you  and  she  go  on  together,  of 


TRIANGLE  283 

course  you  would  not  tolerate  my  presence  and  she 
would  not  want  to  see  me." 

"We  are  going  on  together,"  he  said  grimly. 

"You  may  know  that  I  shall  not  try  to  prevent 
that.  That  decision  lies  with  you  two.  But  in  con 
sidering  it  you  must  know  that  what  you  have  seen 
to-night  came  entirely  from  my  feeling  and  my  lack 
of  self-control.  All  that  which  should  not  have  been 
said  and  done,  was  said  and  done  by  me.  I  owe 
Irma  as  well  as  you  my  deep  apologies.  I  don't 
blame  you  for  wanting  to  throw  me  out,  but  a  row 
of  that  sort  would  punish  Irma  as  much  as  me.  If 
you  would  like  to  meet  me  somewhere  to  take  it 
out  on  me,  I'll  give  you  the  opportunity.  But  I  think 
you  will  prefer  not  to  have  that  episode  here." 

"A  very  pretty  speech,"  he  said  roughly.  "Why 
don't  you  applaud,  Irma?  It  was  made  for  your 
benefit.  Very  noble.  Now  if  that's  all  you  have 
to  say,  please  get  out,  with  this  understanding — 
if  you  ever  speak  or  write  to,  or  attempt  to  see  my 
wife  again,  I'll  settle  the  whole  score  with  you,  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  at  you,  no  matter  where  I  find  you. 
That's  all." 

I  had  my  hand  on  the  door  knob,  when  Irma 
spoke. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Rodney.  That  isn't  quite  all. 
I've  something  to  say  to  you  and  I'll  say  it  now 
when  Edson  can  hear  me.  I  am  a  married  woman 
and  I  shall  fulfill  every  obligation  to  my  husband 
that  I  recognize.  But  I  am  no  man's  property.  You 


284  TRIANGLE 

may  speak  to  me  or  write  to  me  or  see  me  as  you 
see  fit.  If  my  husband  will  not  permit  that  in  his 
house,  then  his  house  will  not  be  mine.  Wherever 
I  have  a  home  you  will  be  welcome.  There  is  noth 
ing  that  I  am  ashamed  of,  or  that  I  regret,  in  any 
thing  that  has  ever  passed  between  us.  I'm  sorry 
for  this  unpleasant  scene  at  the  end  of  the  evening, 
but  I  want  to  thank  you  for  coming  over." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  held  out  her  hand  with 
a  cheery  little,  "good-night,"  and  as  I  closed  the 
door  behind  me  I  saw  her  turn  back  to  where  Colonel 
Fairfield  sat  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  a 
puzzled  glare  wherein  anger  and  admiration  were 
strangely  mingled. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
CIVIL  WAR 

IT  is  spring  in  the  year  1920  as  I  start  on  the 
final  chapters  of  my  story.  After  what  has 
occurred  in  the  last  few  months  I  am  sure  that 
it  is  worth  writing,  because  I  feel  that  I  have 
achieved  something.  I  see  now  that  I  have  failed 
to  use  my  life  to  its  largest  possibilities.  But  the 
apparent  wreck  which  I  have  made  of  it  deserves 
explanation.  At  least  to  a  few  people  who  think, 
it  may  be  made  clear  that  even  a  life  such  as  mine 
has  a  purpose,  and  that  I  have  fulfilled  a  part  of 
that  purpose. 

When  the  warning  signs  of  the  great  miners'  strike 
appeared  at  the  end  of  summer  last  year  I  must 
admit  that  I  was  unsympathetic.  In  common  with 
the  opinion  of  my  associates  I  thought  that  labor 
had  been  treated  pretty  generously  during  the  war 
and  that  now  in  reconstruction  days  labor  should 
give  capital  a  chance  to  get  our  industries  back  on  a 
profitable  peace  basis.  Some  of  my  labor  leader 
friends  soon  disabused  me  of  this  prejudice.  They 
brought  me  proof  of  the  outrageous  profits  which 
the  mine  owners  had  made  during  the  war,  and  of 
the  miserably  low  average  wages  of  the  miners, 
wages  on  which  they  could  not  supply  their  families 

285 


286  CIVIL  WAR 

with  even  necessities  for  wholesome  living  at  the  high 
post-war  prices. 

Then  I  had  a  coal  operator  on  the  witness  stand 
in  a  case  I  tried  in  September.  His  testimony  showed 
that  his  company,  one  of  the  larger  national  enter 
prises,  was  making  from  five  to  ten  times  what  he 
admitted  was  an  ample  profit  per  ton  of  coal.  He 
told  of  mines  closed  down,  of  coke  ovens  shut  down, 
while  the  price  of  coal  and  coke  mounted  higher. 
He  gave  the  explanation  that  many  of  the  operators 
had  made  so  much  money  during  the  war  that  they 
did  not  care  for  the  trouble  of  operating  at  moderate 
prices.  So  when  the  total  demand  decreased  they 
lessened  the  total  supply.  He  insisted  there  was  no 
combination  of  operators,  that  these  things  just  hap 
pened;  decreased  demand,  decreased  supply,  thus 
maintaining  excessive  prices. 

I  voiced  my  indignation  loudly  before  newspaper 
reporters  but  none  of  this  testimony  got  into  the 
papers.  A  strike  was  imminent  and  the  powerful 
coal  operators  already  were  preparing  a  press  cam 
paign  to  arouse  public  sentiment  against  the  miners. 
So  this  information  on  the  other  side  must  be  kept 
from  the  public.  And  it  was. 

As  the  strike  drew  near,  some  of  the  national 
labor  leaders,  with  whom  I  had  come  into  friendly 
relations  in  the  railroad  rate  battle,  invited  me  into 
various  conferences.  A  strike  on  the  Steel  Corpora 
tion  was  also  imminent.  All  union  officials  realized 
that  a  long  struggle  between  organized  labor  an'd 
organized  money  was  about  to  begin.  During  the 


CIVIL  WAR  287 

war  there  had  been  a  truce,  an  era  of  almost  good 
feeling.  But  labor  had  made  some  gains  that  the 
financial  powers  had  deeply  resented  and  these 
powers  had  resolved  with  the  coming  of  peace  that 
the  increased  authority  of  the  unions  should  be  chal 
lenged.  The  supremacy  of  the  ruling  class  was  not 
yet  menaced  but  it  had  been  threatened  and  the  more 
intolerant  of  the  influential  controllers  of  industry 
had  decided  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  a  reassertion 
of  their  former  mastery.  I  did  not  believe  in  all 
the  talk  which  I  heard  of  a  "Wall  Street  con 
spiracy"  to  destroy  union  labor,  but  there  were 
enough  evidences  of  concerted  action  to  make  the 
solidification  of  the  labor  opposition  an  obvious 
necessity. 

"Wilson  is  against  us,"  I  was  told;  "that  is,  the 
government  is  against  us.  We  don't  know  whether 
there  is  any  Wilson,  since  his  illness.  No  one  can 
see  him  and  no  one  knows  just  who  is  running  the 
White  House.  You  could  see  him  during  the  war. 
Will  you  try  now?" 

"I'll  try,"  I  said,  "although  from  what  I've  heard 
I  doubt  if  I  shall  get  anywhere." 

So  I  went  back  to  Washington  on  a  fruitless  quest. 
I  stayed  there  a  week,  but  I  did  not  see  the  Presi 
dent,  nor  could  I  find  out  who  was  running  the 
administration.  Everything  was  covered  with  mys 
tery.  Presidential  politics,  in  anticipation  of  the 
1920  election,  were  adding  to  the  disheartening  con 
fusion  of  a  government  whose  chief  magistrate  was 
mysteriously  ill  and  unapproachable.  I  did  get  con- 


288  CIVIL  WAR 

vincing  information  that  the  Attorney  General  was 
a  candidate  for  the  democratic  nomination  and  was 
playing  the  game  for  support  from  the  anti-labor 
interests.  This  meant  that  the  full  force  of  the  De 
partment  of  Justice  and,  through  it,  the  power  of 
the  courts  would  be  thrown  against  the  wage-earners 
in  the  impending  struggle. 

During  these  days  of  quiet  investigation  and  wait 
ing  I  had  several  unhappy  talks  with  Irma.  She  was 
living  again  with  Miss  Stevenson.  Despite  her 
earnest  protests  Colonel  Fairfield  had  resigned  from 
the  army  and  had  gone  back  to  his  old  work  in  New 
York  City.  The  more  she  had  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  follow  his  strong  interest  and  stay  in  the 
service,  the  more  resolved  he  had  been  to  prove  her 
judgment  all  wrong  and  to  show  her  that  he  could 
do  great  things  in  New  York.  He  clung  obstinately 
to  the  idea  that  her  feeling  that  he  would  not  be 
successful  was  the  real  reason  why  she  wanted  to 
be  free  from  their  marriage.  He  insisted  that  when 
he  had  "made  good"  she  would  see  things  differently. 
He  would  not  even  discuss  a  divorce.  He  was  not* 
going  to  let  her  cast  him  aside  just  because  she 
thought  he  was  going  to  be  a  failure  and  that  "that 
damned  Merrill  has  a  great  career  ahead  of  him." 

"He  thinks  it  is  all  a  matter  of  ambition  with  me, 
Rodney,"  she  explained.  "He  thinks  that  I  am  at 
tracted  to  you  because  you  have  held  a  big  office 
and  have  made  a  good  deal  of  money,  and  that  I 
am  anxious  for  a  position  of  wealth  and  influence. 
He  thinks  I  am  contrasting  a  small,  poor  life  with 


CIVIL  WAR  289 

him  against  a  big,  rich  life  with  you.  He  is  sure 
that  if  he  can  make  a  lot  of  money,  I  will  turn  back 
to  him.  What  a  low  estimate  to  place  on  me !  Th*e 
truth  is  that  my  greatest  worry  in  the  thought  of 
marriage  to  you  is  that  we  might  both  be  too  imprac 
tical  to  give  worldly  success  its  full  value,  the  thought 
that  perhaps  you  need  a  more  practical  mate  than 
I  should  be." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  succeed  under  this  strong 
stimulus?" 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  he  could  make  a  million  in  a  year. 
The  fact  that  it  didn't  change  me  might  prove 
to  him  how  wrong  he  is.  Also  I'm  sure  that  if  he 
had  plenty  of  money  he  would  find  other  things — 
in  fact,  other  women — so  attractive  that  he  would 
soon  want  to  be  free  from  his  stubborn  and  unappre- 
ciative  wife.  But  that  isn't  what  will  happen.  He 
will  drift  along,  expecting  from  year  to  year  to  make 
a  fortune,  growing  more  resentful  of  my  attitude 
and  more  determined  not  to  set  me  free.  And  think 
of  it!  There  is  nothing  I  can  do.  As  long  as  he 
chooses  he  can  hold  me,  hold  me  to  the  form  of 
a  marriage  that  has  no  substance  in  it.  Think  of 
it!  The  world  talks  and  talks  of  freedom  as  the 
most  priceless  thing  in  life,  freedom  to  develop  one's 
own  life,  to  live  out  one's  own  ideals;  and  yet  a  man 
or  a  woman  can  use  marriage  as  a  chain  with  which 
to  hold  another  person  in  slavery — and  do  it  in  the 
name  of  morality — and  worst  of  all,  in  the  name  of 
love !" 

"Irma,  must  you  stay  in  Washington?" 


290  CIVIL  WAR 

"Yes,  yes,  Rodney,  I  must.  Don't  try  to  tempt 
me  away.  Perhaps  his  resolution  may  break  down 
sooner  than  I  dare  to  hope,  if  I  give  him  a  chance. 
I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  and  I  should  love 
to  live  in  the  same  city  with  you,  but  I  must  not. 
Here  I  have  my  little  foolish  work  to  do  with  Mrs. 
Grinsrnore;  something  to  occupy  my  mind.  If  I 
went  to  Chicago,  I  should  have  nothing  to  do  except 
to  be  with  you  and  we  would  be  together  far  too 
much.  To  be  together  and  yet  apart  would  be  too 
great  a  strain. 

"Then  my  going  to  Chicago  would  harden  Ed's 
will  beyond  all  breaking.  He's  not  a  weak  man,  as 
you  know.  He  might  come  out  there  and  make  a 
dreadful  row.  But  if  he  stayed  away  he  would  set 
his  mind  against  all  reason  and  hold  me  tied  for 
life.  No,  that  would  be  madness.  I  must  stay  away 
from  you  and  just  hope  and  pray." 

The  return  trip  from  Washington  was  full  of  dis 
comforting  thoughts.  I  felt  at  outs  with  all  the  rul 
ing  forces  of  society.  Political  forces  seemed  bent 
on  crushing  the  aspirations  of  a  great  mass  of  men 
struggling  against  working  conditions  that  were 
essentially  slavery.  Social  forces  seemed  bent  on 
crushing  the  aspirations  of  one  woman  struggling 
against  living  conditions  that  were  essentially  slavery. 
The  desires  of  the  workers  were  no  more  than  the 
natural,  righteous  desires  of  free  men  to  obtain  a 
value  in  their  lives  fairly  equal  to  the  value  to  other 
lives  of  their  labor.  The  desire  of  the  woman  I 


CIVIL  WAR  291 

loved  was  the  natural,  righteous  desire  of  a  free 
woman  to  obtain  a  value  in  her  life  fairly  equal  to 
the  value  to  a  man's  life  of  what  she  had  to  give 
to  him. 

The  managers  of  the  coal  industry  were  not  giv 
ing  the  workers  anywhere  near  the  living  value  of 
their  work  to  others.  What  right  had  the  political 
forces  of  a  government  of  free  people  to  deny  these 
workers  freedom  to  give  or  to  withhold  their  service 
at  their  own  will?  The  present  husband  of  this 
woman  could  not  give  her  anywhere  near  the  value 
of  what  she  had  to  give  a  husband.  What  right 
had  the  moral  forces  of  a  society  of  free  people 
to  deny  her  freedom  to  give  or  to  withhold  her 
service  at  her  own  will? 

I  appreciated  thoroughly  the  hopeless  wrath  of 
the  exploited  worker  who  was  faced  at  every  turn 
with  moral  and  legal  barriers  against  his  effort  to 
exercise,  not  a  privilege,  but  a  fundamental  right, 
to  those  who  believe  in  liberty  and  democracy.  I 
felt  the  same  hopeless  wrath  with  the  moral  and 
legal  barriers  against  Irma's  free  right,  to  choose 
with  whom  she  would  or  would  not  live  as  a  wife. 

A  man  in  the  smoking  compartment  loudly  as 
serted  that  the  workers  should  live  up  to  their  con 
tracts. 

"What  contracts?"  I  asked. 

"Their  contracts  to  work  for  an  agreed  wage." 

"Has  anybody  agreed  to  furnish  them  work?" 
I  inquired. 


292  CIVIL  WAR 

"Of  course  not;  you  can't  guarantee  a  man  work, 
when  you  can't  tell  how  much  work  there  is  going 
to  be." 

"Then  the  contract  you  speak  of  is  just  an  agree 
ment  on  one  side  to  sell  something  for  a  price,  but 
no  agreement  of  the  other  side  to  buy." 

"Well  isn't  that  a  good  contract?" 

"I  think  if  you  ask  any  lawyer  he  will  tell  you 
that  a  man  isn't  bound  to  go  on  selling  to  another 
man  who  hasn't  agreed  to  buy.  As  a  business  man 
would  you  care  to  be  bound  to  sell  to  another  man 
who  didn't  agree  to  buy?  Pretty  one-sided,  isn't  it?" 

A  long  wordy  discussion  ensued  with  much  mean 
ingless  talk  of  right  and  wrong  and  loyalty  and 
obligation.  That  night,  lying  in  my  berth,  I  puzzled 
much  over  the  loyalty  and  obligation  of  employer 
and  employee,  of  husband  and  wife.  Were  we  not 
much  inclined  to  demand  only  loyalty  on  one  side 
and  the  fulfillment  of  a  one-sided  obligation?  The 
basis  of  a  true  obligation  must  be  mutual  interest. 
The  employer  of  fifty  thousand  men  wanted  them 
to  be  loyal  to  what  he  pleasantly  called,  in  after  din 
ner  speeches,  "their  common  business."  But  if  busi 
ness  were  dull  or  prices  were  falling  he  might  decide 
to  lay  off  five  thousand  men  without  even  discussing 
the  matter  with  them.  What  was  their  attitude 
toward  a  business  from  which  they  might  be 
separated,  and  thereby  deprived  of  a  livelihood,  on 
a  few  days'  notice?  No  wonder  they  didn't  feel 
much  obligation  or  loyalty  to  that  business. 

Colonel  Fairfield  claimed  that  his  love  for  Irma 


CIVIL  WAR  293 

imposed  on  her  the  obligation  to  devote  herself  to 
his  happiness.  But  his  love  for  her  was  a  desire  for 
what  he  wanted  from  her — not  a  desire  to  give  her 
what  she  wanted.  Why  should  not  the  obligation  of 
his  love  bind  him  to  sacrifice,  rather  than  bind  her? 
But,  perhaps  he  asserted  that  it  was  the  obligation 
of  marriage,  not  of  love,  upon  which  he  insisted. 
She  had  made  a  contract  and  must  keep  it.  Again 
I  thought  of  my  labor  union  friends,  who  fiercely 
insisted  that  there  was  no  moral  force  in  any  wage 
contract,  that  if  men  through  economic  pressure  or 
by  mistake  bound  themselves  to  wages  upon  which 
they  found  that  they  could  not  support  their  families 
decently,  they  could  not  be  held  morally  bound  by 
such  agreements.  They  denied  that  there  could  be 
a  moral  obligation  to  sacrifice  lives  to  fulfill  a  money 
obligation. 

Could  there  be  a  moral  obligation  to  make  a  futile 
sacrifice  of  the  possibilities  of  two  lives  to  fulfill  a 
marriage  agreement  to  protect  and  cherish  each 
other's  lives?  Was  there  a  moral  obligation  to  bring 
children  into  the  world  without  love  and  to  develop 
them  to  maturity  in  a  loveless  home?  There  is  a 
legal  principle  that  a  contract  engendered  in  fraud 
is  not  binding.  Was  there  not  a  moral  principle — 
which  should  be  given  legal  sanction — that  a  con 
tract  on  becoming  a  fraud  should  be  no  longer  bind 
ing? 

My  thought  ran  on  in  this  fashion: 

Men  and  women  in  civilized  countries  cannot  make 
legally  enforcible  contracts  which  require  servitude. 


294  CIVIL  WAR 

Great  judges  have  held  that  it  is  "an  invasion  of 
one's  natural  liberty  to  compel  him  to  work  for  or 
to  remain  in  the  personal  service  of  another."  Hence 
men  and  women  may  not  be  compelled  to  give  per 
sonal  service,  save  in  the  one  instance  where  forced 
personal  service  is  the  most  degrading  of  all  servi 
tudes — in  the  fulfillment  of  the  marriage  contract 
My  laboring  friends  are  fighting  an  ancient  battle 
over  again,  the  fight  for  human  freedom  against 
tyranny  in  its  ancient  character,  but  operating  with 
new  devices.  To-day  as  yesterday  it  is  the  tyranny 
of  economic  power,  the  power  to  say:  serve  or  suffer. 
Irma's  struggle  is  a  part  of  the  same  warfare  and 
her  tyrant  says:  serve  or  suffer.  I  would  give  my 
all  to  battle  for  her,  but  she  must  fight  it  out  alone. 
At  least  I  feel  that  I  can  fight  in  the  same  cause  for 
these  men  who  are  looking  to  me  for  aid.  I  can 
give  them  the  best  that  is  in  me  and  feel  as  though 
in  a  way  I  were  striking  a  blow  for  her. 

This  soliloquizing  will  show  the  state  of  mind  in 
which  I  returned  to  Chicago.  It  may  explain  some 
what  the  violence  of  my  subsequent  revolt.  When 
a  man  gets  a  thwarted  love  for  a  woman  mixed  up 
in  his  motives  for  giving  battle  to  an  entrenched 
evil,  his  spirit  may  take  on  that  fanaticism  which  is 
dangerous  alike  to  the  foe  and  to  the  fighter.  I 
was  desperately  inspired  to  grapple  with  some 
"hydra-headed  wrong"  and  the  opportunity  came 
upon  me  very  soon. 


CIVIL  WAR  295 

As  the  day  of  the  great  strike  drew  near,  the  law 
officers  of  the  government  announced  their  intention 
to  obtain  a  sweeping  injunction  which  would  paralyze 
the  activity  of  every  important  union  official.  They 
were  to  be  forbidden  to  communicate  with  each  other 
in  any  way  in  order  to  carry  on  the  strike,  forbidden 
to  use  the  union  funds  to  pay  strike  benefits  to  keep 
the  strikers'  families  from  starving,  not  merely  for 
bidden  to  carry  out  all  their  duties  to  their  organ 
izations  but  actually  ordered  to  violate  their  instruc 
tions  and  to  sign  orders  directing  the  men  who  had 
voted  to  strike,  to  stop  striking,  required  to  order 
men  to  work  who  had  decided  to  refuse  to  work. 
Every  constitutional  guarantee  essential  to  preserve 
human  liberty  was  to  be  ignored.  The  rights  of 
free  speech,  free  press,  free  assemblage,  and  free 
dom  of  labor  were  to  be  disregarded.  Trial  by  jury 
was  to  be  denied;  for  if  these  men  refused  to  obey 
the  court  they  would  be  sent  to  jail  for  contempt  of 
court,  their  offending  and  their  punishment  to  be 
determined  by  a  single  judge,  without  any  trial  by 
a  "jury  of  their  peers." 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  these  advance  notices 
of  tyrannical  abuse  of  power  could  be  reliable.  Yet 
we  were  informed  that  they  were.  A  group  of 
higher  union  officials  with  a  staff  of  lawyers  sat  in 
practically  continuous  session  for  thirty-six  hours  de 
bating  the  best  course  of  action  to  meet  this  assault 
on  their  liberties.  At  the  outset  the  labor  leaders 
were  recklessly  belligerent  They  would  rot  in  cells 
for  months  or  years  rather  than  bow  to  such  orders ! 


296  CIVIL  WAR 

They  would  call  upon  all  organized  labor  for  a  gen 
eral  strike !  They  would  stop  the  wheels  of  private 
industry  and  public  utilities  so  the  cities  should  be 
in  darkness  at  night  and  silent  in  the  days!  The 
railroads,  the  telegraph  and  telephone  lines  should 
be  dead  until  the  "Wall  Street  gang"  in  terror  told 
their  political  puppets  at  Washington  to  call  off  the 
courts  and  end  the  civil  war! 

But  the  worried  lawyers  sapped  this  courage,  hour 
by  hour.  National  leaders  of  other  trades  sent 
hesitating,  fearful  messages,  advising  "no  hasty  or 
violent  action."  It  was  pointed  out  that,  with  their 
treasuries  sealed,  their  leaders  in  jail,  the  newspapers 
alienating  public  opinion  from  "law-breakers"  and 
"hot-headed  radicals,"  the  union  organizations 
would  be  smashed.  Every  weak  or  doubting  worker 
would  be  taken  away  from  the  ranks.  Other  unions 
dreading  like  injury  would  hesitate  to  risk  their 
organization  strength  in  such  a  drastic  fight.  An 
"attack  on  the  courts"  was  always  a  dangerous  pro 
cedure,  sure  to  antagonize  a  great  share  of  public 
opinion.  Even  the  great  Roosevelt  had  lost  most 
heavily  in  popularity  when  his  opponents  could  claim 
that  he  was  destroying  respect  for  the  courts. 

As  I  saw  the  courage,  I  might  almost  say  the  man 
hood,  oozing  out  of  the  conferees  my  heart  grew  bit 
ter.  It  was  after  many  hours  that  one  of  my  friends, 
noticing  my  long  silence,  stood  up  and  said: 

"We  have  heard  from  several  of  the  lawyers,  but 
one  man,  I've  been  waiting  for,  hasn't  spoken.  I 


CIVIL  WAR  297 

think  we  would  all  be  interested  to  know  how  he 
feels.  I'd  like  to  hear  from  Rodney  Merrill." 

I  stood  for  a  few  minutes  looking  over  my 
audience.  I  saw  for  the  most  part  men  of  rugged 
faces,  some  kindly,  some  wistful  but  all  rather  hard, 
the  faces  of  men  for  whom  life  had  been  a  battle 
and  who  wore  the  scars  on  their  cheeks.  But  also 
I  saw  another  look  that  I  did  not  like,  a  shade  of 
fear,  not  the  fear  of  a  fight,  but  the  fear  of  unknown 
forces,  foreheads  lined  with  worry  over  a  grapple 
with  superior  powers.  That  was  what  I  resented 
most,  a  silent  acknowledgment  of  the  superiority  of 
the  powers  against  them.  I  did  not  blame  them  for 
this  feeling  but  I  resented  it  as  a  self-depreciation 
in  men  who  often  talked  arrogantly  and  yet  seemed 
in  their  hearts  to  admit  an  unworthiness  for  the 
rights  they  demanded,  which  made  their  cause  seem 
unworthy,  whereas  I  felt  it  was  great  and  righteous. 
In  this  reaction  I  began  speaking: 

"I  think  that  men  who  are  willing  to  be  slaves, 
will  always  be  slaves!" 

There  was  a  confusion  of  assent  and  antagonism. 
I  waited  for  quiet  and  then  went  on: 

"I  agree  with  all  that  has  been  said  of  the  dangers 
of  revolt.  These  dangers  will  always  be  present 
and  tyranny  will  use  them  to  check  every  timid  soul 
that  yearns  for  freedom  but  dares  not  fight  its  way 
free.  I  should  like  to  stand  up  before  a  judge  who 
dared  to  issue  such  an  order  and  to  defy — not  the 
court  but  the  man  who  attempted  to  use  his  judicial 


298  CIVIL  WAR 

office  in  violation  of  his  oath  of  office,  to  destroy 
the  constitutional  rights  he  is  sworn  to  preserve,  the 
natural  rights  of  the  free  men  of  this  democracy. 
With  four  hundred  thousand  men  back  of  me  I  be 
lieve  I  could  enforce  the  law  even  against  a  lawless 
judge." 

A  burly  leader  arose  and  shook  his  fist  at  me. 

"You  say  you'd  stand  up,"  he  shouted.  "But  you 
lawyers  just  talk.  Your  skin  would  be  safe.  We 
fellows  would  have  to  stand  up  and  take  the  punish 
ment." 

They  tell  me  that  my  face  turned  very  white.  I 
know  that  I  was  shaking  with  rage.  In  that  moment 
I  made  my  decision,  the  quickest,  most  important 
move  of  my  life,  the  one  of  which  I  am  most  proud 
— and  most  ashamed;  proud,  because  it  was  the  gift 
of  all  I  had  for  an  ideal;  ashamed,  because  I  made 
it  without  thinking.  I  acted  on  pure  emotion.  I 
should  feel  so  much  more  worthy  of  my  own  ap 
proval  if  I  had  decided  in  cold  blood.  And  now  I 
am  not  sure  that  in  reflection  I  should  have  had  the 
vision  and  the  courage. 

"My  friend,"  I  cried,  "I'll  stand  up  all  alone. 
You  can  decide  to  bow  to  the  court  if  you  will,  but 
before  you  do  that,  if  you  people  will  give  me  the 
chance,  I  will  stand  up  and  tell  that  man  who  usurps 
a  power  never  granted  him  that  he  is  a  law  breaker 
who  has  violated  his  oath  to  defend  the  Constitu 
tion.  You  give  me  the  chance  and  I'll  take  your 
punishment." 

Then  the  battle  of  words  began  anew  and  no 


CIVIL  WAR  299 

decision  had  been  reached  when  adjournment  was 
voted  from  sheer  weariness  long  hours  afterward. 

A  few  days  later  another  all-night  session  was 
held.  In  the  meantime  the  hateful  injunction  order 
had  been  served  on  all  the  labor  leaders.  On  the 
following  day  they  were  to  appear  before  the  judge 
and  sign  telegrams  canceling  the  strike  orders  and 
directing  the  miners  to  return  to  work — unless  they 
decided  to  defy  the  court.  I  had  prepared  a  state 
ment  denying  the  power  of  the  court  to  override  the 
Constitution.  If  the  men  voted  to  refuse  to  obey 
the  injunction  this  would  be  their  statement.  If  they 
voted  to  obey,  I  stood  ready  to  make  the  statement 
alone  as  a  declaration  by  their  attorney  of  their  legal 
rights. 

The  other  lawyers  present  all  agreed  that  my  legal 
position  was  correct  but  they  all  advised  against  any 
attempt  by  the  men  to  stand  on  their  legal  rights. 
They  could  see  nothing  but  ruin  for  the  unions  in 
a  contest  with  the  government.  They  predicted 
disaster  for  trade  unionism,  if  its  leaders  ever  al 
lowed  their  organizations  to  defy  the  law.  In  debate 
they  admitted  that  the  injunction  was  not  lawful — 
but  insisted  that  to  refuse  to  obey  an  order  of  court 
meant  to  defy  the  law  in  the  eyes  of  most  people. 
They  would  not  understand  that  the  judge  who 
issued  an  order  beyond  his  power  was  the  one  who 
was  defying  the  law. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  before 
the  final  vote  was  taken  and  the  decision  was  made 
to  bow  to  the  will  of  the  judge.  Then  my  burly 


300  CIVIL  WAR 

friend  who  had  attacked  me  in  the  previous  meet 
ing  arose  and  demanded  of  the  weary,  resentful 
group  that  they  should  authorize  me  to  make  my 
protest  before  they  announced  their  submission.  In 
his  bloodshot,  heavy-lidded  eyes  I  saw  a  bitter  desire 
to  hear  the  judge  defied  and  to  see  me  crucified,  as 
some  compensation  for  the  humiliation  of  those  who 
must  accept  defeat.  I  think  this  was  the  prevailing 
spirit.  They  passed  the  motion  with  a  whoop. 
Then,  after  another  resolution  that  no  advance  in 
formation  should  be  given  to  the  newspapers,  the 
crowd  of  worn  and  angry  men  staggered  out  of  the 
meeting  room.  Inside  two  hours  the  newspapers 
were  on  the  streets  with  the  headlines:  "Miners 
will  protest  and  submit." 


THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

A~^  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  leaders  of  the 
mine  workers  were  assembled  in  the  federal 
court  room.  The  gavel  banged  and  the  judge 
ascende'd  the  bench.  He  looked,  as  he  was,  the  ideal 
instrument  for  the  enthronement  of  tyranny  in  the 
name  of  democracy.  He  was  no  debased  mercenary 
tool  of  the  invisible  government.  In  his  cold,  clean- 
hewn,  narrow  face  was  shown  the  zeal  of  the  man 
who  does  wrong  because  he  believes  it  to  be  right. 
He  was  completely  corrupted,  not  by  money,  but 
by  prejudice.  He  was  the  perfect  product  of  a 
system  for  obtaining  judges,  which  insures  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  at  least,  that  they  shall  be  human 
but  bloodless  scales  that  will  always  show  false 
weights,  whereby  property  rights  will  outweigh 
human  rights,  whereby  the  rights  of  those  who  ex 
ploit  will  outweigh  the  rights  of  those  who  serve, 
and  whereby  precedent  and  security  will  outweigh 
progress  and  liberty,  in  every  crucial  test. 

The  case  was  formally  called. 

"Are  the  respondents  present?"  said  the  judge  in 
a  thin,  crisp  voice. 

301 


302  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

One  of  the  lawyers  stepped  forward. 

"All  those  who  have  been  served  are  present  in 
person  or  represented  by  counsel." 

"Are  the  orders  prepared  for  these  officials  to 
sign  instructing  the  men  that  they  are  not  to  strike?" 

"They  are,"  answered  the  assistant  attorney 
general  who  had  come  from  Washington  and  ob 
tained  the  injunction. 

The  labor  lawyer,  a  gaunt,  kindly  old  man  named 
Merton,  raised  a  nervous  hand  and  announced  with 
feeble  resolution: 

"We  have  a  motion  to  present  to  set  aside  the 
injunctive  order.  We  desire  to  be  heard." 

"I  have  gone  into  the  question  very  thoroughly," 
said  the  court.  "I  shall  not  vacate  the  injunction." 

"But  you  will  not  deny  us  even  an  opportunity 
to  be  heard?"  gasped  Merton. 

"I'll  give  you  one  hour  if  you  insist,"  answered 
the  court  ungraciously. 

For  three-quarters  of  an  hour  the  lawyer  strug 
gled  to  present  his  case  against  a  continual  fire  of 
assertions  by  the  court: 

"Don't  waste  time  on  that  point  ...  I  disagree 
with  your  interpretation  of  that  decision  .  .  .  Don't 
quote  the  Constitution  to  me.  I'm  familiar  with  it. 
.  .  .  That  law  is  not  binding  on  this  court  .  .  .  No 
use  reading  that  opinion.  I  shouldn't  follow  it  if 
it  supported  you,  but  it  doesn't." 

Finally  Merton's  voice  stuck  in  his  throat.  He 
started  a  sentence  three  times  and  then  gave  up  the 
hopeless  effort  to  argue. 


THE  SPOTTED  ROBE  303 

"I  see  your  honor  is  against  me,"  he  said  thickly. 

"You  might  have  seen  that  some  time  ago,"  re 
marked  the  judge  harshly. 

The  lawyer  stumbled  to  his  seat. 

"Motion  is  overruled,"  came  with  machine-like 
precision  from  the  bench.  "Are  the  respondents 
prepared  to  obey  the  order  of  the  court?" 

It  was  my  time.  The  judge  eyed  me  sharply  as 
I  arose.  Doubtless  he  had  been  informed  in  advance 
of  my  intentions  and  had  determined  that  they  should 
not  be  fulfilled. 

"If  your  honor  please,"  I  began,  "I  have  a  state 
ment  to  present  in  behalf  of  all  the  respondents." 

"I  don't  wish  to  hear  any  statements,"  snapped 
the  judge;  "nor  to  hear  from  any  more  lawyers. 
Let  the  respondents  stand  up  and  answer,  yes  or  no. 
Do  they  intend  to  obey  the  order  of  this  court?" 

"This  court  has  issued  no  order,"  I  said,  my  voice 
rising  with  my  anger.  "No  court  in  this  nation  has 
power  to  issue  any  order  depriving  men  of  their 
constitutional  rights.  The  courts  are  the  servants, 
not  the  masters,  of  the  Constitution." 

"Mr.  Merrill,"  snarled  the  judge,  rising  to  his 
feet,  "if  you  attempt  to  reargue  a  motion  I  have 
overruled  I  shall  commit  you  to  jail  forthwith  for 
contempt  of  court." 

"I  am  not  arguing  a  motion  now,  Mister  Hen- 
drickson,"  I  replied  fiercely.  "I  am  not  addressing 
a  judge.  I  am  speaking  to  a  man  who  without  a 
shadow  of  authority  has  dared  to  sign  his  name  as 
a  judge  of  the  United  States  District  Court  to  an 


3o4  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

order  which  no  judge  of  that  court,  or  any  other 
court  in  this  land,  has  any  power  to  issue.  That 
order  is  utterly  void  and  no  one  is  bound  to  obey  it. 
You  signed  that  order  as  a  man,  not  as  a  judge,  and 
I  am  here  to  tell  you,  man  to  man,  that  the  violation 
of  that  order  is  not  a  contempt  of  court.  It  is  only 
the  contempt  of  a  free  man  for  a  destroyer  of 
liberty." 

"Take  that  man  into  custody!"  cried  the  judge. 
But  as  the  deputy  marshal  hurried  toward  me  I  fired 
my  last  shot. 

"There  is  the  statement  which  you  would  not  per 
mit  me  to  read,"  I  said.  "The  people  will  read  it, 
if  you  will  not." 

I  flung  the  typewritten  statement  on  the  table  and 
tossed  a  bundle  of  printed  copies  to  the  newspaper 
men. 

"Seize  those  papers !"  called  out  the  judge.  "And 
let  me  inform  every  newspaper  man  in  this  court 
room  that  I  shall  hold  in  contempt  of  court  any  paper 
which  prints  any  of  the  statements  made  orally  or 
in  writing  by  this  man,  which  I  hold  to  be  contempt 
uous.  I'll  read  this  statement  now  to  myself." 

As  I  stood  before  the  bench  with  the  round-faced, 
self-important  deputy  marshal  at  my  side,  I  had  con 
siderable  satisfaction  in  watching  Judge  Hendrick- 
son's  face.  He  was  really  an  able  lawyer,  and  I 
knew  that  the  statement  with  its  cold,  cutting  analysis 
of  his  usurpation  of  power  would  hurt  him  far  more 
than  even  my  previous  scornful  rage.  He  would 
know  in  his  brain  that  he  was  utterly  wrong,  even 


THE  SPOTTED  ROBE  305 

if  his  perverted  emotions  still  assured  him  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  crush  the  miners'  strike. 

Paragraph  by  paragraph  I  could  follow  his 
thought  as  he  read: 

"The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  is  the 
Supreme  Law  of  the  land.  The  decisions  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  are  final 
authority  in  interpreting  the  Constitution.  The  fed 
eral  judges  are  sworn  to  support  the  Constitution, 
and  are  required  to  follow  the  decisions  of  the 
Supreme  Court.  Congress  cannot  grant  a  judge  the 
power  to  disregard  the  Constitution. 

"The  Constitution  provides:  'Congress  shall 
make  no  law  abridging  the  freedom  of  speech  or  of 
the  press  or  of  the  right  of  the  people  peaceably  to 
assemble.'  The  Constitution  provides:  'Neither 
slavery  nor  involuntary  servitude  shall  exist  within 
the  United  States.' 

"The  Supreme  Court  has  held  that  under  these 
provisions  workers  have  the  right  to  strike,  and  has 
held  that  no  court  can  compel  them  to  work  against 
their  will." 

Then  he  read  the  quotations  from  the  Supreme 
Court,  the  statement  of  the  law  that  his  injunction 
violated,  and  his  eyes  narrowed  and  his  jaws  set 
obstinately;  for  this  is  what  he  read: 

"The  right  of  a  person  to  sell  his  labor  upon  such 
terms  as  he  deems  proper  is  in  its  essence  the  same 
as  the  right  of  the  purchaser  of  labor  to  prescribe 
the  conditions  upon  which  he  will  accept  such  labor 
from  the  person  offering  to  sell  it.  So  the  right  of 


3o6  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

the  employee  to  quit  the  service  of  an  employer  for 
whatever  reason  is  the  same  as  the  right  of  the 
employer  for  whatever  reason  to  dispense  with  the 
services  of  such  employee." 

Then  he  read  the  stalwart  words  of  one  of  the 
great  judges  of  that  Supreme  Court: 

"It  would  be  an  invasion  of  one's  natural  liberty 
to  compel  him  to  work  for  or  to  remain  in  the  per 
sonal  service  of  another.  One  who  is  placed  under 
such  constraint  is  in  a  condition  of  involuntary  servi 
tude — a  condition  which  the  Supreme  Law  of  the 
land  declares  shall  not  exist  in  the  United  States  or 
in  any  place  subject  to  their  jurisdiction." 

But  I  could  see  in  the  impatient  shake  of  his  head 
the  thought  that  general  principles  could  not  control 
this  exceptional  case;  the  welfare  and  prosperity  of 
the  country  demanded  that  coal  be  produced — even 
though  labor  be  temporarily  enslaved.  And  then 
he  read  again  from  the  Supreme  Court  words  writ 
ten  only  a  few  years  before : 

"There  is  no  more  important  concern  than  to  safe 
guard  the  freedom  of  labor,  upon  which  alone  can 
enduring  prosperity  be  based." 

Then  he  passed  on  to  the  Act  of  Congress  which 
specifically  prohibited  him  as  a  judge  from  issuing 
the  injunction  which  he  had  issued.  He  read  this 
plain  language:  "And  no  restraining  order  or  in 
junction  shall  prohibit  any  person  or  persons, 
whether  singly  or  in  concert,  from  terminating  any 
relation  of  employment,  or  from  ceasing  to  perform 
any  work  or  labor,  or  from  recommending,  advis- 


THE  SPOTTED  ROBE  307 

ing  or  persuading  others  by  peaceful  means  so  to 
do." 

I  watched  his  face  grow  shadowed  as  he  read  the 
charge  that  he  had  violated  the  Constitution  and  the 
Act  of  Congress  which  he  had  been  sworn  to  en 
force,  that  he  had  refused  to  follow  the  Supreme 
Court,  his  judicial  master,  that  he  had  used  his  power 
of  enforcing  the  law  as  the  means  for  breaking  the 
law,  that  his  order  was  entitled  neither  to  obedience 
nor  to  respect,  that  it  was  not  the  act  of  a  judge 
but  the  lawless  act  of  a  usurper  exercising  power 
without  right,  that  he  was  using  the  forms  and  in 
stitutions  of  our  government,  which  was  established 
to  preserve  liberty,  as  a  means  to  destroy  liberty. 

He  read  the  long  statement  through  to  its  end, 
an  appeal  to  the  American  people  to  array  them 
selves  behind  the  workers  who  were  fighting  for 
something  more  important  than  coal,  for  something 
which  the  founders  of  the  republic  had  held  to  be 
more  important  than  life  itself.  They  were  fighting 
for  human  freedom. 

He  flung  down  the  typewritten  pages. 

"Let  the  government  prepare  a  further  injunc 
tion,"  he  announced,  "prohibiting  the  circulation, 
printing  or  publishing  in  any  form  whatsoever  of  any 
part  of  the  oral  or  written  statements  made  by  Rod 
ney  Merrill  in  this  case  or  of  any  similar  statements 
made  by  him  or  any  other  person  seeking  to  incite 
opposition  to  obedience  to  the  orders  of  this  court. 
It  is  also  the  order  of  this  court  that  you,  Rodney 
Merrill,  stand  committed  to  jail — I'll  fix  the  place  in 


3o8  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

the  warrant  of  commitment — for  the  period  of  three 
months,  for  contempt  of  this  court.  I  trust  that  con 
finement  may  bring  you  a  calmer  judgment  and  some 
sense  of  respect  for  the  law  and  the  courts,  so  that 
before  the  expiration  of  the  term  of  imprisonment 
I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  application 
to  purge  yourself  of  the  most  flagrant  and  insolent 
contempt  which  I  believe  can  be  found  in  the  records 
of  the  American  courts." 

I  smiled  grimly  as  this  sentence  was  passed  upon 
me,  because  I  was  recollecting  that  my  statement 
had  been  telegraphed  confidentially  just  prior  to  the 
opening  of  court  to  every  leading  newspaper  in  the 
country,  and  that  it  was  now  printed  in  all  the  after 
noon  papers  and  that  his  latest  injunction  could  not 
possibly  prevent  nation-wide  publicity.  If  he  had 
known  this  he  would  have  sentenced  me  probably  for 
at  least  six  months.  But,  the  sentence  now  having 
been  imposed  he  would  be  powerless  to  increase  the 
punishment.  So  I  smiled  at  my  little  secret  jest, 
although  it  may  have  appeared  that  my  cheerfulness 
was  mere  bravado. 

Indeed  I  felt  rather  cheerful,  although  the  looks 
that  followed  my  departure  from  the  courtroom 
might  have  warned  me  of  the  coming  hostility  of 
the  public  attitude,  which  I  had  not  fully  anticipated. 
Somehow  I  had  great  confidence  in  the  fundamental 
soundness  of  my  legal  position,  which  I  felt  would 
meet  with  quiet  sympathy  among  lawyers,  and  I  had 
confidence  in  the  fundamental  appeal  to  public  sup- 


THE  SPOTTED  ROBE  309 

port  which  I  felt  lay  in  such  an  obvious  personal 
sacrifice  for  the  supreme  American  ideal. 

The  happenings  of  the  days  following  quickly  de 
stroyed  this  mistaken  confidence.  Lawyers  and  lay 
men  alike  responded  generally  to  the  note  of  horror 
which  the  newspapers  struck  in  noisy  unison — horror 
that  a  lawyer  of  national  reputation,  a  man  who  had 
been  honored  with  high  office,  had  suddenly  become 
a  "red  radical"  and  defied  the  majesty  of  the  law! 
All  fine  distinctions  between  what  was  the  law  and 
what  the  judge  said  was  the  law,  were  swept  aside 
by  this  outrageous  fact.  I  had  advised  a  refusal  to 
obey  the  courts.  I  had  advocated  rebellion.  And 
then  I  had  crowned  my  sin  with  infamy  in  denounc 
ing  a  judge  to  his  face  while  he  was  sitting  on  his 
own  bench.  I  had  even  dared  to  call  him  "Mister!" 

Horrors  upon  horrors !  I  had  called  His  Honor 
— a  Judge  enthroned  upon  the  bench,  all  wrapped 
up  in  a  silken  robe — I  had  called  this  sanctified 
person,  "Mister!"  One  friendly  editor  suggested 
that  I  had  gone  insane  from  overstrain  in  war  work 
followed  by  intensive  labor  in  preparation  for  this 
important  hearing.  This  was  the  kindliest  comment 
which  I  can  recall.  I  was  most  amused,  however,  to 
observe  that  all  the  papers  printed  copious  extracts 
from  my  written  statement  and  quoted  in  full  my 
oral  castigation  of  the  judge.  It  was  evident  that, 
since  the  early  papers  had  carried  all  the  important 
parts  of  my  attack,  the  other  papers  had  come  to  a 
common  decision  to  disregard  the  judge's  injunction 


3io  THE  SPOTTED  ROBE 

against  printing  my  statements.  Of  course  Judge 
Hendrickson  never  punished  any  one  for  this  con 
tempt.  It  must  have  galled  him  to  have  my  justifi 
cation  of  my  contempt  spread  broadcast.  But  he 
would  have  been  most  ungrateful  and  impolitic  to 
have  punished  men  who  only  printed  my  remarks 
in  order  to  demonstrate  to  their  readers  what  a 
wicked  person  I  must  be  and  how  generous  the  judge 
had  been  merely  to  send  me  to  jail  for  three  months 
and  not  to  order  me  hanged  on  the  spot ! 

I  am  writing  these  words  in  prison.  In  all  the 
imaginings  of  the  course  of  my  life,  which  came 
before  me  while  writing  this  autobiography,  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  my  story  might  end  in  jail.  Yet 
now  I  see  that  this  is  a  fitting  place  for  it  to  end. 
The  desire  for  real  achievement  in  life  is  a  very 
dangerous  one.  Progress  must  be  forced  against 
the  opposition  of  the  powers  that  be,  whose  selfish 
interests  are  in  the  maintenance  of  things  as  they  are. 
Thus  there  is  always  a  warning  to  the  impatient 
reformer  in  the  cry  that  echoes  down  from  an  older 
day:  "Right  forever  on  the  scaffold;  wrong  forever 
on  the  throne." 

My  defiance  of  the  court  may  have  been  rash  and 
unwise,  but  it  was  an  expression  of  an  ideal  that 
uplifts  mankind,  the  love  of  freedom.  The  court 
order  against  me  expressed  the  fear  and  cruelty  of 
the  oppressor  who  beats  down  the  aspirations  of 
humanity.  In  the  just  judgment  of  after  years  I 
feel  that  the  apparent  stain  on  my  life  will  be  washed 


THE  SPOTTED   ROBE  311 

away  and  that  the  ermine  which  enwraps  the  judicial 
despot  will  be  seen  as  a  spotted  robe.  Yet  I  do  not 
approve  of  my  own  conduct  as  the  best  use  which 
I  could  have  made  of  my  life  opportunity.  I  have 
spent  many  hours  reviewing  my  motives  and  my  acts, 
and  I  find  much  to  regret  in  what  I  have  done  and 
much  to  revise  in  opinions  that  I  have  held  quite 
stubbornly.  These  who  have  the  patience  to  read 
my  story  through  will  find  in  it,  I  trust,  not  excuse 
or  justification  but,  let  me  say,  a  confession  of  blind 
ness,  an  inability,  I  hope,  rather  than  an  unwilling 
ness,  to  see  the  guiding  lights  that  might  have  shown 
me  a  better  road  to  a  worthier  goal. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
SALVAGE 

IN  the  first  place,  why  am  I  in  jail?     Men  who 
are  sentenced  to  prison  usually  stay  outside  the 
bars   for   some   time.      There   are   bonds    and 
appeals    and   habeas    corpus   proceedings,    through 
which  the  evil  day  may  be  at  least  deferred.     But 
it  is  particularly  hard  to  evade  a  commitment  for 
contempt  of  court  in  the  presence  of  the  court,  and 
in  this  instance  I  had  little  heart  to  attempt  post 
ponement  of  my  punishment.     My  whole  world  fell 
about  my  ears  in  one  day. 

Francis  Thompson  has  expressed  perfectly  what 
happened  to  me: 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 

And  pulled  my  life  upon  me;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke. 

The  day  after  my  revolt  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  President  of  the  Fanning  Company  stating  that 
the  Board  of  Directors  at  a  special  meeting  had 
voted  unanimously  to  accept  my  resignation  as  gen 
eral  counsel.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  resigned  but 
I  did  judge  from  the  letter  that  my  services  were 

312 


SALVAGE  313 

no  longer  desired!  Various  other  clients  took  their 
business  elsewhere  with  more  haste  than  courtesy. 
Certain  organizations  of  lawyers  to  which  I  belonged 
took  prompt  steps  to  eliminate  me  from  their  mem 
bership.  Inside  a  week  it  was  clear  that  my  profes 
sional  career  was  ended.  An  old  personal  enemy 
instigated  disbarment  proceedings.  Of  course,  I  had 
still  some  money  with  which  I  could  have  fought 
official  and  unofficial  punishment.  A  few — a  very 
few — friends  volunteered  services  to  aid  me.  But 
the  uproar  in  the  newspapers  made  opposition  quite 
hopeless.  The  chief  political,  social  and  financial 
powers  of  the  community  were  bent  on  my  destruc 
tion  as  a  warning  against  all  radicalism.  I  saw  that 
I  might  as  well  bow  before  a  storm  which  I  could 
not  breast. 

Therefore,  I  have  made  no  effort  to  prevent  or  to 
postpone  my  ordained  penitence.  By  good  fortune 
I  have  a  kindly  jailer  and  much  opportunity  to  think 
and  to  write.  What  more  could  I  ask? 

The  leaders  of  the  mine  workers  formally  sub 
mitted  to  the  court's  decree,  as  I  was  being  led  away. 
The  process  of  "digging  coal  by  injunction"  is  now 
being  tried — with  indifferent  success,  I  understand. 
Indirectly  messages  come  to  me  that  I  have  a  few 
hundred  thousand  friends  among  the  workers  and 
that  makes  up  considerably  for  the  loss  of  a  number 
of  friends  I  once  had  among  people  who  do  no 
useful  work  at  all.  Yet  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have 
served  these  people,  whom  I  really  desired  to  serve, 
as  well  as  I  might  have  served,  had  I  chosen  my 


3H  SALVAGE 

course  more  carefully.  But  of  this  I  shall  write 
later.  Now  let  me  speak  of  Irma.  I  had  a  long 
letter  from  her  yesterday  reading  in  part  as  follows : 

"My  dear,  dear  boy — 

"Of  course  it  was  magnificent — and  folly.  I  can't  quite 
understand  such  youthful  recklessness  in  a  man  of  forty-five. 
I  love  you  for  it  because  it  was  young  and  brave.  But  it  is 
all  so  misunderstood  and  you  are  so  misunderstood  that  you 
must  feel  terribly  discouraged.  And  so  I  comfort  you  by 
calling  it  folly?  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  It's  a  divine 
sort  of  folly.  I  really  believe  you  have  fulfilled  a  Purpose. 
Yet,  I  feel  that  if  you  were  capable  of  such  a  deed  perhaps 
there  was  even  more  for  you  to  do — some  greater  stroke. 
Perhaps  this  is  only  your  first  blow.  There  may  be  others 
for  your  arm  to  strike.  Let  us  believe  so. 


"I  am  glad  that  Gene  came  to  see  you  and  it  was  very 
thoughtful  of  you  not  to  write  me  directly  when  the  news 
papers  might  have  learned  my  name  and  brought  me  into 
the  story.  Now  that  you  can  write  freely  I  am  watching 
every  mail. 


"Edson  writes  as  obstinately  as  ever.  He  will  never  give 
me  up,  he  says.  Somehow  that  doesn't  worry  me  as  it  did. 
Since  I  have  seen  what  the  law  has  done  to  you,  I'm  afraid 
I've  grown  very  lawless.  His  little  legal  chain  on  me  seems 
very  brittle.  I  feel  that  I  could  break  it  with  my  own  hands. 
You  and  I  seem  to  be  forced  outside  the  law  and  I  am 
happy  in  the  thought  of  such  exile  with  you. 


SALVAGE  315 

"You  asked  me  to  try  to  express  just  why  I  cannot  tol 
erate  the  thought  of  living  with  Edson.  Truly  it  is  not 
because  of  you,  my  dear.  Long  ago,  when  I  had  no  assurance 
that  you  cared  for  me,  I  knew  that  I  could  not  go  through 
life  with  him.  Some  men  and  women  have  aspirations  in 
life.  Some  have  only  appetites.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  that 
every  life  should  have  aspirations.  Perhaps  some  souls  need 
materialistic  lives  to  give  them  their  destined  development. 
The  material  things  of  life  must  have  purpose  in  themselves 
or  they  would  not  be  all  of  the  apparent  end  and  aim  of  so 
many  lives. 

"But  other  lives  are  starved  with  mere  materialism.  If 
you  or  I  had  nothing  to  look  forward  to  from  day  to  day 
except  our  food  and  drink  and  sleep  and  the  pleasures  of 
satisfying  body  appetites  we  would  be  utterly  miserable.  Yet, 
for  thousands,  millions,  of  people  those  things  seem  to  be 
enough.  They  do  not  care  to  give  up  any  of  them  for  what 
we  call  ideals  or  spiritual  desires.  They  think  your  search 
for  the  Purpose  is  either  a  delusion  or  a  pose.  Yet,  it  is 
a  real  thing  to  me.  It  is  my  own  search. 

"Edson  is  a  pure  materialist  and  not  even  ambitious  for 
greatness  in  material  gains.  He  does  a  day  of  work  so  as  to 
be  able  to  have  a  good  time,  as  he  calls  it :  to  play  a  game,  to 
see  a  show,  to  flirt  with  a  pretty  girl,  or  to  drink  and  gamble 
with  some  'good  sports.'  He  has  no  desire  to  grow  mentally 
or  spiritually.  This  is  a  living  death  to  me — life  is  just 
one  long  decay.  He  is  so  utterly  unable  to  understand  the 
reality  of  intangible  things  to  me  that  he  thinks  I  imagine 
these  desires  just  to  explain  why  I  like  another  man  better 
than  him.  Discussion  is  hopeless,  but  it  completely  convinces 
me  of  the  impossibility  of  calling  this  tie  between  us  a 
marriage. 

"He  floats  on  the  surface  of  living.  I  cannot  float.  I 
must  swim  to  get  somewhere  or  else  I  shall  sink.  The  meta 
phor  may  sound  silly,  but  you  know  my  meaning.  Perhaps 
I'm  not  heavy  enough  to  dive  deep  into  the  waters  or  strong 


3i6  SALVAGE 

enough  to  swim  far,  but  I  know  that  I'm  not  light  enough 
just  to  float. 

"Miss  Stevenson  asks  me  why  I  should  not  continue 
married  to  Edson  and  yet  seek  in  my  individual  life  the  ful 
fillment  of  my  desires.  She  doesn't  understand  why  I  can 
not  grow  mentally  alone,  even  if  my  husband  does  not  share 
my  aspirations.  Of  course,  one  can  grow  somewhat  in 
spiritual  solitude  even  despite  an  unsympathetic  physical 
companionship.  But  I  cannot  explain  to  Miss  Stevenson, 
who  has  always  been  so  much  alone,  that  I  think  a  single 
life  is  less  than  half  a  life.  I  don't  believe  that  the  only 
necessity  for  the  association  of  men  and  women  is  in  order 
to  reproduce  our  kind. 

"You  and  I  had  a  talk  once  about  the  dynamic  force  pro 
duced  from  contacts  between  men  and  women — as  electricity 
is  produced  by  uniting  opposite  elements.  That  cleared  up 
my  ideas  considerably.  I  am  sure  that  neither  of  us  can 
realize  the  full  purpose  of  our  lives  alone.  We  won't  gen 
erate  the  right  kind  of  energy  except  out  of  a  companionship 
that  stimulates  us  both  to  the  highest  use  of  our  powers. 
Now  life  with  Edson  would  not  only  fail  to  stimulate  me 
but  it  would  actually  work  against  my  efforts  to  energize 
myself. 

"It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  exprsss  these  ideas  clearly  so 
that  they  will  appear  actual  and  not  visionary,  but  I  feel  them 
intensely.  The  force  of  a  mental  intrusion  that  cuts  my 
thought  in  two  is  just  as  real  to  me  as  the  snip  of  a  pair  of 
scissors  that  cuts  a  thread.  To  step  into  a  warm  or  cold 
mental  atmosphere  is  just  as  real  to  me  as  to  step  under  a 
hot  or  cold  shower. 


"Edson  asks  me  what  this  love  is  that  I  am  seeking.  He 
says  I  once  loved  him  and  I  may  again,  but  that  even  if  I 
may  not,  why  should  I  seek  another  love  which  may  also 


SALVAGE  317 

fade?  My  answer  seems  quite  insane  to  him.  My  feeling 
is  that  a  lasting  bond  between  a  man  and  a  woman  must  be 
woven  of  passionate  longing  and  spiritual  longing,  inter 
mingled  desires  for  intimacy  of  body  and  soul ;  and  that  one's 
mental  yearning  is  not  so  much  a  love  for  the  other  person 
as  a  love  for  the  ideals  to  be  realized  through  spiritual  com 
radeship.  Thus  if  our  ideals  are  not  realized  love  fades  and 
only  passion  remains.  And  passion  dies  young  without  love's 
constant  nourishing. 

"Recently  I  found  some  verses  that  stirred  me  deeply.  It 
wasn't  that  they  spoke  my  exact  thought  but  that  they  gave 
me  the  cheer  that  others  in  the  world  shared  my  vision — 
our  vision — that  others  glimpsed  the  same  light  and  knew 
it  was  no  will-o'-the-wisp,  but  a  true  guiding  star." 


The  verses  in  Irma's  letter  I  had  not  seen  before 
and  I  regret  that  I  cannot  give  their  authorship.  But 
they  have  a  part  in  this  story — so  I  shall  copy  them 
into  my  manuscript: 


THE  WOMAN  SPEAKS 

I  do  not  know  this  God  to  whom  they  pray, 

By  whose  decree  the  truth  shall  count  as  naught 

And  I  should  live  this  lie  throughout  my  day 
And  call  this  bitter  thing  the  love  I  sought. 

For  they  have  said  my  heaven  was  a  hell, 
The  place  where  he  and  I  lived  once  in  love, 

That  dizzy  height  to  which  they  said  we  fell — 
All  earth  below  and  only  stars  above! 


3i8  SALVAGE 

Sometimes  at  night  when  I  am  left  alone 
I  seek  again  the  path  that  once  we  found; 

The  marks  are  gone,  the  way  is  overgrown, 
I  listen  for  a  voice  and  hear  no  sound. 

Then  comes  a  thought,  that  after  all  these  years 
With  clumsy,  brutal  feet  have  trod  me  down 

And  when  at  last  there  can  be  no  more  tears 

When  even  their  strange  God  will  cease  to  frown, 

I  may  return  to  that  dear  place  and  find — 
You! — and  I  think  you  will  be  waiting  me — 

And  we  shall  marvel  that  our  lives  were  blind, 
Then  we  were  given  love  by  which  to  see! 


That  last  line  haunts  me.  It  speaks  the  solution 
of  more  problems  than  those  of  marriage.  I  catch 
a  vision  of  humanity  stumbling  along  in  the  dusk 
between  the  darkness  of  birth  and  the  darkness  of 
death,  eyes  half-closed  and  blinded  with  hates  and 
greeds,  yet  holding  within  and  rarely  used  the  power 
of  "love  by  which  to  see."  Surely  I  have  been  blind ! 
Even  in  my  revolt  I  acted  in  hatred  of  enemies  more 
than  in  love  of  friends.  My  wrath  aroused  a 
counter  wrath.  I  sought  to  invoke  force  against 
wrong,  not  to  inspire  love  of  right.  I  drew  a  sword 
and  met  a  stronger  sword.  I  did  not  put  my  full 
faith  in  the  ideal  which  I  sought  to  uphold.  Men 
cannot  be  forced  to  think  right  or  compelled  to  be 
good.  They  can  only  be  persuaded.  I  have  simply 
proved  again  that  "he  who  loses  his  temper  loses 


SALVAGE  319 

his  cause."  I  don't  feel  like  apologizing  to  the 
judge.  He  was  more  wrong  than  I.  But  I  regret 
my  own  weakness  whereby  I  destroyed  my  own 
power  in  misusing  it. 

When  I  leave  this  place  I  must  begin  life  anew. 
Yet  what  can  I  accomplish,  compared  with  what  I 
might  have  done  had  I  treasured  my  ideals  instead 
of  wasting  them  in  one  mad  adventure?  Is  it  worth 
while  for  me  to  try  to  go  on?  That  is  a  question 
which  I  cannot  answer.  Being  unable  to  answer1  it  I 
must  follow  my  instinct  which  tells  me  that  each  life 
must  live  itself  out  to  do  all  that  can  be  done  to 
fulfill  its  hidden  design.  But  there  is  one  problem 
which  I  must  face.  Have  I  not  done  with  Rodney 
Merrill?  Have  I  not  ruined  Rodney  Merrill  so  that 
this  name  and  personality  will  stand  in  the  world 
for  a  life  which  I  no  longer  desire  to  live? 

The  failures  of  our  lives  have  drawn  Irma  and 
me  so  closely  together  that  I  feel  we  could  never 
be  contented  with  any  lesser  intimacy  of  companion 
ship.  Yet  Irma  Conway  and  Rodney  Merrill  can 
not  join  their  lives  successfully  without  another  revolt 
against  forces  too  powerful  to  be  challenged.  That 
lesson  at  least  has  been  taught  me  by  my  revolt. 
Irma  and  I  were  impatient  souls — and  now  I  see 
that  such  impatience  is  a  deadly  error  in  one  who 
seeks  a  purpose  in  his  living,  the  impatience  that 
thinks  intention  is  assurance  of  achievement  and 
demands  the  reward  in  advance  of  the  service.  One 
must  serve  in  faith.  One  must  work  and  trust,  or 
else  be  unworthy  of  being  given  trust. 


320  SALVAGE 

Irma  and  I  were  given  love  by  which  to  see  our 
possibilities  in  life  with  each  other.  In  this  illumi 
nation  we  sensed  the  happiness  of  giving  our  lives 
to  the  service  of  something  outside  ourselves.  Then 
the  war  came.  There  is  some  comfort  in  feeling  that 
the  world  madness  blinded  so  many  that  it  is  not  sur 
prising  that  our  visions  were  obscured  and  we  lost 
the  light  of  love  in  the  great  glare  of  hate. 

In  war  work  I  saw  a  quick  road  to  greatness.  I 
thought  it  was  greatness  of  soul  that  I  sought.  I 
fear  it  was  only  the  illusion  of  vanity  and  pride. 
Irma  also  sought  the  short  path.  I  really  believe 
that  she  married  in  that  mistaken  theory  of  sacrifice 
from  which  so  many  women  marry  men  whom  they 
do  not  love,  but  to  whom  they  feel  that  they  can 
make  a  great  gift.  They  marry  drunkards  to  reform 
them,  marry  disillusioned  men  to  bring  back  their 
ideals,  and,  heaven  help  them!  they  marry  remorse 
ful  widowers  to  give  them  a  chance  not  to  spoil  an 
other  woman's  life.  Irma  found  a  splendid  animal 
lover  of  life,  bravely  ready  to  give  up  his  life  for 
his  country  and  gently  soulful  with  self-pity  for  the 
sacrifice.  She  saw  a  chance  to  give  him  her  life  in 
compensation,  a  chance  in  a  way  to  give  her  life 
for  her  country,  a  short-cut  to  achieving  a  noble 
purpose. 

Now  we  are  both  paying  bitterly  for  our  impatient 
spirits  that  gambled  with  life — and  lost.  We  have 
had  to  learn  an  old  lesson,  that  a  gambler  never 
wins.  It  is  this  realization  that  the  road  to  real 
success  is  long  and  progress  is  slow  that  makes  me 


SALVAGE  321 

dread  to  begin  again  at  forty-five.    Yet  what  else  is 
there  to  do? 


Since  I  wrote  down  my  first  reactions  three  weeks 
have  passed  and  once  more  I  find  my  viewpoint 
changed.  But  I  am  not  disturbed  by  this  mental 
uncertainty.  I  am  beginning  to  see  that  my  lack  of 
convictions,  about  which  my  friends  have  jested  and 
I  have  worried,  is  not  just  mental  weakness.  In 
fact,  I  am  ready  to  assert  that  there  is  real  strength 
of  character  in  this  questioning.  The  fool  is  often 
brave  because  he  is  ignorant  of  danger.  The  dullard 
is  often  self-assured  because  he  lacks  imagination. 

As  suited  to  my  mental  and  physical  state  Gene 
Halliwell  sent  me  a  copy  of  De  Profundis  and  I 
have  been  rereading  it  with  most  intense  pleasure. 
Particularly  I  found  comfort  in  these  sentences : 

People  whose  desire  is  solely  for  self-realization  never 
know  where  they  are  going.  They  can't  know.  In  one  sense 
of  the  word  it  is,  of  course,  necessary  as  the  Greek  oracle 
said,  to  know  oneself:  that  is  the  first  achievement  of  knowl 
edge.  But  to  recognize  that  the  soul  of  a  man  is  unknow 
able,  is  the  ultimate  achievement  of  wisdom.  The  final 
mystery  is  oneself.  When  one  has  weighed  the  sun  in  the 
balance,  and  measured  the  steps  of  the  moon,  and  mapped 
out  the  seven  heavens  star  by  star,  there  still  remains  one 
self.  Who  can  calculate  the  orbit  of  his  own  soul? 

Thus  I  have  come  to  a  new  judgment  concerning 
my  revolt.  I  still  believe  that  I  might  have  made 


322  SALVAGE 

more  of  my  life  if  I  had  held  my  place  in  the  world 
and  built  power  on  power  until  I  could  have  fought 
a  greater  battle  for  the  things  in  which  I  believe. 
Yet  in  the  end  there  would  have  been  defeat — per 
haps  a  greater  defeat  that  would  have  meant  a 
greater  achievement.  But  it  would  have  been 
defeat  for  this  particular  man  who  is  labeled 
'  Rodney  Merrill. 

Individual  victories  in  the  progress  of  humanity 
are  rare  and  insignificant.  Those  who  have  any 
large  purpose  to  fulfill  must  ever  ride  to  defeat.  I 
hesitate  to  compare  my  little  life  with  any  of  the 
great  lives  that  stand  out  in  the  world's  chronicles. 
But  I  have  been  rereading  much  history  since  I  have 
been  in  jail  and  I  find  that  its  great  stories  are  those 
of  great  defeats.  Those  who  have  served  mankind 
have  died,  on  the  cross,  at  the  stake,  and  in  chains. 
They  have  been  hissed  in  assemblies  and  jeered  at 
as  they  passed  along  the  street.  Their  truth-telling 
has  been  proclaimed  a  lie;  their  virtue  denounced  as 
vice;  their  revelation  scorned  as  false  prophecy.  It 
is  the  unforgivable  sin  to  think  more  deeply  and  to 
see  more  clearly  than  one's  generation. 

Yet,  the  course  of  evolution  is  so  manifest  to  one 
who  cares  to  study  the  past  and  then  is  able  to  fling 
his  imagination  ahead  to  glimpse  the  future,  that 
eager  spirits  are  ever  impatient  to  hurry  their  fel 
lows  toward  the  dawn  of  a  better  day.  This  eager 
ness  is  their  personal  tragedy.  But  surely  they  play 
a  part  in  quickening  the  step  of  the  great,  slow 
masses  of  mankind  in  whom  there  is  implanted  a 


SALVAGE  323 

sullen  instinct  to  move  toward  the  light.  I  am  only 
a  little  dreamer  but  I  have  lived  for  my  dream,  and 
that  is  something  better  than  to  have  had  no  dream 
or  to  have  denied  it. 


I  have  puzzled  much  over  this  freedom  for  which 
I  felt  ready  to  wreck  my  fortunes.  What  is  the  lib 
erty  which  we  rightly  crave?  Certainly  it  is  not 
release  from  obligation.  Now  I  think  I  have  it.  It 
is  freedom  from  obligations  which  are  not  self-im 
posed.  Every  duty  owed  to  one's  family,  to  one's 
companions,  or  to  society,  which  has  final  sanction, 
is  a  duty  to  oneself.  It  is  a  duty,  which  if  not  ful 
filled  will  cost  oneself  more  than  the  price  of  fulfill 
ment.  The  one  obligation  which  all  must  acknowl 
edge  is  self-realization.  The  one  right  which  includes 
all  natural  rights  is  the  right  of  self-development. 

Of  course,  when  a  man  is  a  member  of  any  group, 
from  the  small  intimate  group  of  man  and  wife  to 
the  larger,  more  remote  association  of  citizenship  in 
a  nation,  he  assumes  group  obligations  which  he  must 
fulfill  and  which  must  be  fulfilled  for  him,  in  order 
that  he  may  develop  within  the  group  wherein  he 
exists.  I  do  not  suggest  that  one  should  feel  free 
from  such  obligations.  They  may  be  often  unfair 
and  hampering,  but  they  are  facts  which  must  be  ac 
cepted  just  as  one  must  accept  the  fact  of  being 
born  with  weak  eyes  or  clumsy  hands. 

But  there  are  certain  group  obligations  which 
appeal  to  me  as  quite  intolerable,  because  they  harm 


324  SALVAGE 

both  the  individual  and  the  group.  They  are  what 
may  be  called  obligations  imposed  without  authority. 
No  one  by  joining  any  group — or  even  by  being  born 
into  a  group — should  be  held  to  have  authorized 
the  group  to  limit  his  freedom  to  think,  to  exchange 
ideas  or  to  give  his  personal  service.  One  may  have 
wrong  ideas  and  attempt  to  spread  them,  but  wrong 
thinking  is  just  as  necessary  for  self-development  as 
right  thinking.  The  man  or  woman  who  has  never 
thought  wrong  does  not  know  why  his  right  thinking 
is  right  and  has  no  srund  basis  upon  which  he  may 
be  relied  upon  to  do  right. 

Freedom  to  give  or  to  withhold  personal  service 
is,  of  course,  necessary  for  physical  expression  of 
the  self-found  purpose  of  the  individual.  Any  inter 
ference  with  this  freedom  means  arrested  self-de 
velopment  and  in  a  very  real  sense  a  denial  of  the 
right  to  live. 

These  freedoms  of  thought  and  speech  and  labor 
have  been  gradually  accepted  as  natural  rights  after 
a  struggle  of  centuries.  They  are  the  foundations 
of  the  political  ideals  of  the  twentieth  century,  and 
have  been  written  in  plain  words  into  the  basic  law 
of  our  country.  For  the  sworn  guardian  of  that 
law  to  deny  them,  was  to  commit  a  high  crime  against 
human  progress.  So  I  have  come  at  the  end  of  my 
study  to  the  conviction  that  I  was  utterly  right  and 
that  the  judge  was  utterly  wrong,  and  that  rny  revolt 
was  fully  justified. 

When  I  say  that  my  revolt  was  justified,  I  do  not 
mean  that  it  was  the  best  use  for  me  to  make  of  my 


SALVAGE  325 

opportunities.  I  still  doubt  that.  But  I  am  certain 
that  it  was  at  least  a  good  use,  which  has  given  the 
living  of  my  life  some  value. 

I  have  sought  diligently  to  determine  the  motives 
that  caused  me  to  act  as  I  did.  Here  again  I 
glimpse  the  dynamic  power  of  the  relations  of  men 
and  women.  I  deeply  resented  the  legal  obligations 
imposed  on  Irma,  whereby  she  was  required  either 
to  live  with  a  man  with  whom  she  did  not  wish  to 
live,  or  else  to  live  alone.  This  was  not  a  self-im 
posed  obligation  because  every  woman  entering 
marriage  does  not  commit  herself  to  such  slavery. 
There  is  many  a  man  in  the  world  who  would  scorn 
to  contend  that  a  woman  had  made  such  a  contract  in 
marrying  him.  Even  the  marriage  vows  taken  at 
the  altar  do  not  impose  that  obligation,  despite  their 
ancient  phrasing,  because  modern  law  and  custom 
have  qualified  them  to  permit  the  right  of  separation 
for  causes  which  vary  according  to  geography,  rather 
than  from  differing  standards  of  morality. 

Therefore,  Irma  found  herself  held  to  an  obliga 
tion  which  was  not  self-imposed.  When  she 
married,  if  she  had  considered  her  marriage  as 
a  bond,  she  would  have  assumed  that  in  accordance 
with  its  unwritten  terms  she  would  be  entitled  to 
release  whenever  its  conditions  became  intolerable. 
She  was  marrying  "an  officer  and  a  gentleman," 
part  of  whose  creed  was  supposed  to  be  chivalry 
toward  women.  She  had  the  right  to  expect  that 
such  a  one  would  not  invoke  an  empty  legal  form 
to  deny  her  freedom  from  a  marriage  that  had  lost 


326  SALVAGE 

the  substance  of  love.  Yet  he  had  used  the  laws  of 
a  government  dedicated  to  human  liberty  as  a  force 
with  which  to  imprison  her  body  and  to  cramp  her 
soul. 

My  spirit  was  hot  in  revolt  against  this  denial  of 
Irma's  natural  right  when  I  came  west  to  take  up 
the  legal  battle  for  the  mine-workers.  Here  I  found 
the  same  abuse  of  power,  the  use  of  community  force 
to  enslave  the  individual,  when  the  only  value  of 
community  life  is  to  afford  the  individual  broader 
and  free  opportunity  to  develop  himself.  The  nat 
ural  rights  of  the  miners  had  been  written  down  in 
our  fundamental  law  and  thus  had  been  made  legal 
rights.  Yet  they  were  to  be  denied  in  the  name  of 
the  law!  Every  throb  of  Irma's  pain  increased  the 
bitterness  of  my  wrath  against  the  enemies  of  lib 
erty  with  whom  the  everlasting  battle  must  be  fought 
— the  warfare  between  the  Takers  and  the  Givers, 
the  individual  and  universal  conflict  between  the 
brutish  creed  of  conquest  and  force,  and  the  human 
faith  of  service  and  love. 

Service  and  love  may  not  be  compelled.  There 
must  be  a  free  will  and  a  free  giving  if  men  and 
women  are  to  use  their  lives  for  the  development  of 
all  life.  This  at  least  comes  to  me  as  the  vision  of 
the  Purpose  and  the  means  for  its  achievement. 
Thus  for  every  free  soul  there  is  an  obligation  to 
do  its  little  task  in  the  great  work  of  freeing  man 
kind  from  the  bondage  of  its  brute  inheritance. 

Year  by  year  and  era  by  era  the  evil  that  primitive 
thought  and  savage  tradition  impose  on  the  world 


SALVAGE  327 

becomes  more  visible  in  the  light  of  deeper  knowl 
edge  and  higher  faith.  The  necessity  for  attack 
upon  entrenched  error  becomes  more  apparent  and 
the  forces  of  progress  increase  until  the  time  comes 
for  revolt.  Then  the  slow  process  of  evolution  is 
quickened  to  the  rush  of  revolution.  Humanity 
leaps  ahead.  But  before  this  hurrying  day  arrives 
there  are  always  many  ineffective  but  significant 
revolts,  wherein  impatient  souls  seek  to  lead  an  un 
ready  and  unwilling  host.  The  swift  defeat  of  the 
rash  idealist  seems  a  futile  sacrifice,  yet  along  the 
track  of  broken  lives  of  men  who  sought  to  serve 
them,  the  unready  and  unwilling  host  moves  on. 
Thus  we,  of  the  company  of  untimely  and  lonely 
revolutionists,  impelled  by  the  God  who  grows 
within,  serve  the  purpose  of  our  little  lives. 


To-day  I  received  a  disturbing  letter  from 
Colonel  Fairfield.  He  writes  that  a  week  ago  Irma 
packed  her  things  and  moved  out  of  Miss  Steven 
son's  apartment  without  leaving  either  an  explana 
tion  or  a  future  address.  He  learned  this  upon 
telephoning  to  find  out  why  she  had  not  answered 
an  urgent  letter.  He  assumes  that  I  know  where 
she  has  gone  and  demands  that  I  inform  him.  In 
deed  I  do  not  know  any  more  than  he. 

A  few  days  ago  I  did  receive  a  letter  from  her, 
but  this  is  all  she  wrote : 


328  SALVAGE 

"I  am  considering  a  very  important  step.  If  I  take  it  do 
not  expect  another  letter.  This  note  will  explain  that  I 
have  not  changed  my  feelings  toward  you  in  any  way.  For 
the  rest  I  must  ask  you  to  have  faith  in  me  and  to  know 
that  I  have  a  purpose  which  is  our  purpose.  I  love  you  as 
you  love  me." 

I  have  raced  through  a  hundred  hopes  and  fears. 
All  that  I  know  is  the  dreadful  fact  that  Irma  has 
disappeared.  All  of  Colonel  Fairfield's  threatenings 
cannot  give  me  any  greater  knowledge.  I  must 
remain  here  a  few  days  more.  Then  I  shall  be 
free — free  for  what?  I  must  think  this  out  all  over 
again,  hoping  that  I  may  hear  from  her  before  I  go, 
yet  fearing  that  I  shall  not. 


It  is  the  day  before  my  release.  I  have  been  very 
busy  with  my  writing.  I  have  gone  over  my  whole 
story  with  painstaking  care.  As  I  was  writing  it  I 
sought  to  alter  many  things  so  that  it  might  not 
reveal  to  strangers  intimacies  which  should  be  kept 
sacred.  I  have  made  many  new  revisions  to  insure 
this  protection.  Therefore,  my  manuscript  is  not  a 
photographic  picture  of  my  life.  Those  who  know 
me  well  will  recognize  this.  They  will  find  that 
events  and  characters  do  not  check  with  their  knowl 
edge.  Curious  minded  strangers  will  find  no  satis 
faction  in  trying  to  identify  the  persons,  places  and 
happenings  with  actualities.  The  true  and  the  false 
have  been  carefully  intermingled.  But  in  essentials 


SALVAGE  329 

here  is  a  candid  story  of  the  life  of  a  man  who  tried 
to  find  a  purpose  in  living  and  to  comprehend  and 
have  faith  in  the  God  who  Grew  in  him.  It  is  a 
story  of  a  search  for  revelation  in  the  deep  and  sig 
nificant  influence  of  women  on  his  life.  It  is  com 
pletely  honest  in  its  analysis  of  thought  and  motive 
that  make  up  the  inner  life,  an  analysis  which  has 
seemed  worth  while  because  I  know  that  my  develop 
ment  has  not  been  eccentric  or  exceptional,  but  has 
its  counterpart  in  a  multitude  of  lives.  It  is  probably 
futile  to  attempt  any  further  explanation  of  why  I 
have  lived  as  I  have,  and  why  I  have  written  the 
story  down. 

A  few  more  words  and  I  shall  be  done. 

I  have  heard  nothing  from  Irma  and  my  decision 
is  made.  Irma  has  disappeared  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  disappear.  Somewhere,  somehow,  sometime, 
I  shall  find  her — if  not  Here — then  I  shall  seek  her 
There. 


THE  END 


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